


not a bad thing

by multifandom_fanfic_writer



Series: Fics Watched Over by the Eye [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adoption, Canon made me sad so I wrote this, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Eyes, M/M, also jon is here and he is confused and flattered, canon? i don't even know her, classic institute party divorce time, descriptions of violence as of c3, elias is a perfectionist this also applies to parenting, martin gets adopted by elias and peter, martin goes along with it at this point, non-linear, peter just does his best and also disappears sometimes, soft bastard men, this is sweet allow me my dreams ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandom_fanfic_writer/pseuds/multifandom_fanfic_writer
Summary: Peter and Elias adopt a fifteen-year-old Martin. It goes as well as you’d expect.It sounds like he’s reading from a brochure, Martin thinks fleetingly, vaguely amused. These men – his newparents– do not seem like they know what they are doing.“Peter,” Elias says dangerously. “place in the family.Reaffirming.”(Taking a last long look at the employee contract in his hand, Martin sighs. “Dad is so going to divorce you for this,” he mumbles and signs the papers with a sense of inevitability.)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood & Elias Bouchard & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Fics Watched Over by the Eye [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105445
Comments: 176
Kudos: 547





	1. the house always wins

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=futDWSY82Bs&ab_channel=AdamHoneyman) youtube video (from a TMA Q&A) about Peter being an accidental dad to Tim, as well as “[The Disastrous Life of One Martin K. Blackwood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223961)” which also toys with the Martin-gets-adopted-by-Lonely Eyes idea.
> 
> The beginning of chapter 1 alludes to depression, though it is short and doesn’t go that sad.  
> Chapter 3 includes violence, though not at any of our main characters, and not super heavy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots of a life where Peter and Elias adopt a fifteen-year old Martin.

When Martin Blackwood is fifteen, his mother does and does not catch a bad case of pneumonia.

Coincidentally, that very day, Martin trips over a stray rock and drops his phone.

At that precise moment, two things do and do not happen.

In one universe, Martin is quick enough to snatch it out of the air, bruising his knees in the process. He will walk slower because of that and miss his train. He will also, because of both these things, call his mother on his brand new cell phone to inform her he will be home late. His mother, subsequentially, will smile faintly at his voice (and not his visage) and stay home instead of going out into the cold winter air.

She will welcome him home with a strained smile and die a decade later, a footnote in history as The Archivist lies in a lone hospital bed, unconscious.

In another universe, Martin hesitates too long. The phone breaks. His knees do not hurt. He will fret terribly and still miss his train; he does not call his mother. His mother, subsequentially, will go out for a walk into the cold winter air.

Three weeks later, Karen Blackwood dies of pneumonia.

Martin Blackwood never knows any of this. Nor could he.

This is for the best, as this knowledge would burden Martin terribly. Lucky for him, it is not obtainable nor comprehensible to him.

For us, it is both.

(A butterfly flaps its wings.)

* * *

The orphanage is a strange place.

Martin is barely aware of anything that has happened these past few weeks. His mother is dead; he knows that. She left a will, he recalls vaguely. There was a funeral; few people, even fewer who would talk to him.

New clothes, black and drab. Rain on his cheeks. A shiver in his bones.

Other things must have happened as well. He does not know what, though. The only things he is aware of are the dull ache behind his ribs, the numbness of his fingers, the way colour seeps out little by little from the world.

He is placed into a group home. Bullied immediately, of course; too fat and too clumsy and too kind and too everything.

It is not as if he is used to having friends.

Martin is vaguely aware time passes. Days, maybe weeks. He spends his time on the upper bunk bed of his room that he shares with three others; hiding in the corner, closing his eyes until the day is over.

He will wither here, Martin realizes. Now that his mother is gone, there is no one in this world who would miss him. No one that cares what he does or who he is.

Maybe no one even remembers his name.

Maybe it would be better if-

“Martin?”

He looks up, startled. A little bit of colour seeps back into the world.

It’s the matron of the place – Jawaya, Jawari, something like that. The woman looks surprisingly chipper for this mo- wed- this morning. Her hijab is a cheerful blue.

“Yes?” he asks. His voice is rough from disuse.

“There are two gentlemen here to see you,” the woman continues. “They’d like to get to know you, maybe even give you a new home, if you would like that.”

Martin frowns slowly. That sounded like – adoption? But who would want him?

He’s fifteen years old. He does not have any illusions about the rate of teenage adoption.

Still, Martin nods, and obediently follows the woman.

Downstairs, in the special Guest Room, an man is seated neatly behind the matrons desk – Jawaria, says the nameplate. He looks… rich. Government-y. Boring, if not for the way Marin shivers when the man’s eyes find his, piercing right through him.

The man smiles. It is not unkind. “Lovely,” he says, and somehow Martin feels flattered, though he suspects the man is just putting on a show.

His accent is very posh.

“Mr. Bouchard,” Jawaria greets him, and adds a little confused, “Mr. Lukas. This is Martin Blackwood. Martin, say hello.”

“Good ev- afternoon, I mean, good afternoon,” Martin squeaks, wringing his fingers. God, he’s fucked up already, and the man hasn’t even introduced himself yet.

“Please, call me Elias,” the posh man says kindly, standing up and offering his hand. Martin steps forward on shaky legs, wipes his hand on his trousers before putting it into Elias’.

The handshake is firm, but not unpleasantly so. Martin cannot help himself but meet Elias’ eyes, the gaze so intense it almost fills the hollowness behind his ribs. That is not a bad thing, Martin decides.

“Peter,” a new voice calls out cheerily. Martin startles once more, dropping his hand as Elias shakes his head fondly.

There is another man in the room, leaning casually against the wall that Martin swears had been empty a minute ago.

If you had asked Martin what kind of person this Elias Bouchard would have been married to, his first instinct would be to describe a picture perfect society wife. Jawaria had said _gentlemen,_ though, so he would have adjusted that image to a picture perfect society husband.

Not a tall, gruff-looking sailor who looked as uncomfortable to be here as Martin was. No matter the friendliness in his voice.

‘Peter’ did not offer his hand and Martin did not step forward. Instead, he studied the man, from his pale skin to the somehow familiar bleak colours of his clothing to the way the hollowness in his chest swelled as they locked eyes.

That is also not a bad thing, Martin decides, and offers Peter a small smile.

Peter studies him for a moment longer. Returns it with one of his own.

“He’s the most lonely child currently available,” Elias tells his – husband? – proudly at such a volume Martin is not sure he was meant to hear that.

It’s such an unexpected remark that Martin feels himself frown.

“What do you mean by that?” the young boy blurts out, clamping his lips shut immediately afterwards.

Elias turns to him, slowly, and smiles widely.

“Oh,” he remarks, and sounds almost gleeful, “you’ll do perfectly.”

* * *

Within the hour, Martin is seated in the backseat of a sleek back car, a single suitcase with whatever was left of his belongings tucked into the back.

He’s not sure if this is the way things are supposed to go.

After his second embarrassment, Peter had – surprisingly – stepped forward, nodded, and addressed Jawaria casually. “We’ll take him,” like it was a business proposal.

Jawaria spluttered. “That’s not really how-”

“Martin is okay with it,” Elias interrupted the woman politely, gaze lingering on Peter. “Aren’t you?”

All three adults turned to look at him. Martin bit his lip, looking down shyly, thoughts racing.

In the end, he had felt more alive in these past five minutes than he’d felt in weeks.

“Yes,” he said simply. There was no hesitance in the words.

And so it was done.

The car ride was silent. Martin felt this morning’s solitary feeling slowly creep inward. Every time it starts to overwhelm him, however, Elias throws him a glance through the mirror. And every time, unfailingly, Martin feels the numbness retreat.

It is not a bad thing.

(Peter might have not been in the car, for all the difference it would make.)

Before Martin knew it the car pulled up into the sideway of the biggest houses he’d ever seen. The garden was perfectly kept – too perfect. The windows gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The house was silent as they entered. Martin’s hand on the suitcase was trembling slightly though he was unsure why.

The door closed behind them with a dull thud.

Elias clapped in his hands, a smile on his face.

“Martin,” he said, and the smile on his face seemed genuine. “Welcome to your new home. I’m aware this experience might be overwhelming,” a hand touches his arm, and Martin shivers. 

“But,” Elias continues, pulling back, “I would like to explain a few things before you get the chance to unpack. First of all, you will have your own room in this house. Neither myself, Peter or any of the staff will enter it without your explicit permission – which _does_ mean,” he adds light-heartedly, “you’ll have to clean it yourself,” and Martin can’t help but smile.

“Secondly, as you might have deduced, Peter and I posses some material wealth,” to which Peter sarcastically adds “You mean I do,” without any bite. Elias continues as if uninterrupted. “This means you will be financially well-taken care of. We only expect you to finish your schooling in return.”

Martin nods.

“Lastly, as of this moment, you are still in possession of your own name. If at any point in our… relationship,” an undecipherable expression flickers over both men’s faces for a moment, “you wish to change that, you need only inform us.”

Martin freezes. It had not even occurred to him that he might be expected to change his name. To lose the last thing that connected him to his mother.

Elias is still talking.

“Any other rules or expectations we’ll discuss later. We would like your voice in those decisions and set clear, consistent boundaries while allowing independence.” Peter is rolling his eyes.

It sounds like he’s reading from a brochure, Martin thinks fleetingly, vaguely amused. These men – his new _parents_ – do not seem like they know what they are doing.

But they do seem determined to try.

The feeling of appreciation chokes him for a moment. They think he’s worth the effort. Think he’s worth something.

Martin shuts his eyes and tries not to cry.

* * *

The door closes behind him.

Martin holds his breath and listens.

“You certainly seem to know a lot about adopting a teenager,” Peter says cheerfully, voice dull through the wood.

“When I set my mind to something, I don’t just succeed at it, Peter. I _excel_.”

“You might know the theory, but that’s not the same as practice, darling.”

A pause. Footsteps, slowly moving away.

“I’ll be his favourite parent soon enough,” Elias replies, voice fading.

Peter’s reply echoes through the corridors strangely. Martin is used to listening to voices in the distance, deciphering whether it is safe to come out or not. Maybe that is why he’s able to catch the next words.

“You’ll not win your prize that easily,” and then there is silence.

Martin turns and starts to unpack his things.

* * *

Living with Elias and Peter is… strange.

But surprisingly nice.

The two are different as night and day. For the first week the three of them stay home together, to _acclimate and reaffirm his place in the family,_ as Elias had reprimanded Peter when the man complained about clinginess two days in.

Peter turns out to be the fun dad.

He has the worst sense of risk-assessment and danger that Martin has ever seen. The gruff sailor is also totally up for anything as long as it does not involve too many people. Peter is the one who Martin can sit in comfortable silence with for hours when the world becomes too much. Once, when Martin feels so numb he can’t feel his toes, Peter even pulls him into his side. The embrace was inherently contradictory, numbness and comfort radiating from it at the same time.

It was nice. It was – effort.

His dad is also, unsurprisingly, the one who makes him laugh. Either through his sense of humour – mostly based around making fun of Elias – or through the fact that he doesn’t mind Martin’s increasingly weird suggestions of things to watch or do as Elias talks seriously on the phone two rooms over.

Martin learns a lot about sloths. There are still splatters of clay on the expensive rug in the living room. Peter and Martin decide it should stay that way.

Elias, on the other hand, is the serious father.

He’s all about _open communication_ and _healthy lifestyle choices_ although his definition of ‘healthy’ seems to make no sense. Elias actually gets Martin to open up after Martin refuses the offer of a therapist. When his father sits down and asks something in his voice it difficult for Martin to _not_ answer. Elias is the one Martin actually talks to about his mother, his childhood, saying exactly the right things even though he sometimes seems to miss the emotions behind the words. Still, he tries.

Martin never fails to appreciate that both of them try.

Elias is also the practical one, the one to take him shopping for clothes and furniture and books – lots and lots of books. Money is so far from an issue it might as well not even exist.

Sometimes, Martin still thinks this is all a joke. That he’s just an experiment for these men, a thing to be played with until they get bored, then discarded without a fuss. _You’ll not win that your prize that easily_ resonates in his head when he’s alone at night, crying and sobbing and gasping, grief a monster in his chest that is far from defeated.

But weeks go on, and the axe doesn’t fall.

Things change. Elias works even more than nine to five, apparently, though he makes an effort to be home for dinner at least three times during the workweek. Head of The Institute, whatever that may be.

Peter, on the other hand, disappears for weeks on his ship. A captain. Huh.

His new school is pretty okay. Expensive, mostly, with excellent teachers and facilities and pupils who are too busy studying to think of bullying. Martin takes up boxing and revels in the outlet.

Elias seems satisfied. Peter is indifferent.

The next few months are… nice. The gaping hole his mother left behind is still there, but it is not quite as painful. The edges are dulled with Peter’s numbing comfort and familiar coldness, the gap filled slowly with Elias’ eyes and words, gaining warmth as the days progress.

Peter takes him on trips ranging from busy cities to nature’s solitary wonders. He explains, all the while, the beauty of loneliness, to which he seems really attached for some reason. Alone in a crowd, alone in the woods, alone alone _alone_.

Martin never really feels alone, not matter how unnaturally the fog follows them. He doesn’t mind the creeping isolation so much. It’s sort of comforting. His dad is there with him, after all, and he never disappears.

(Not truly.)

Elias teaches him things. So many things. Psychology and body language and also management styles for some reason – he is very opiniated about those. He seems to take a certain delight in it, emphasising the importance of curiosity, gathering as much knowledge as you can, observing others as if they are objects to be dissected.

Martin finds it rather charming. He likes learning new things. He likes listening to his father explain him things even more. He likes the pleased tilt to his voice whenever Martin asks a question the most.

His parents are not quite normal.

But that’s okay. They care for him, make time for him, do the best they can.

It’s not a bad thing.

Time flies by. Life settles into a routine. Martin slowly feels like himself again.

The morning of his sixteenth birthday dawns brightly.

For dinner, as desert, he’s promised cake.

However, before they even start the main course, his parents announce their divorce.

* * *

Even years later, the reason why is not quite clear. Martin’s best guess would be that the domesticity, the sense of normality, had become too much for them.

“I get the house, so Martin stays with me. Simple as that.” Elias sounds like he’s proposing a business deal as Martin’s world shatters.

“Please, alone in this awful place with only you and your books as company? He might get _lonely_.” Peter’s usually cheery voice is dark and low. “Or worse, bored. Martin can stay at the Tundra with me.”

“Please,” full of disdain, piercing eyes flaring, “don’t come to me with that horrible ship of yours. A boy his age needs to develop, socially and intellectually. The only thing he can learn on that wreckage of yours is _seasickness_ ,” the last word a sneer.

Martin’s knuckles are white from where he’s clutching the silverware.

“You’re… getting divorced?”

The words come out small, though not as small as Martin feels, all the broken pieces of his soul shining through.

He should’ve known. It was finally going well, both his dad and father actually treating him with actual affection. He even started to make some friendly overtures at school. His room was feeling like his own safe haven. And now…

Tears well up in his eyes.

“Oh.” Peter says, perfunctory.

“Oh.” Elias repeats blankly.

Martin turns around and flees.

He slams the door of his room before either of his parents can catch up.

“Martin,” Elias says, knocking on the door, and he actually sounds _worried_. Good actor, Martin thinks spitefully. “Can I come in?”

Martin does not answer. He’s not sure he can, sobs wrecking his body. It’s falling apart. It’s all falling apart.

“Martin,” Peter adds helplessly. There is actually emotion in his voice, even though he does not say anything else.

Something about it makes Martin nod in permission.

The door opens the next moment, before Martin even remembers to verbalize his permission.

For all their insistence, the way his parents enter his room is strangely hesitant.

Martin forces himself to stop crying. Usually, that’s easy. He’s remarkable good at it, replacing sadness with numbness. Detaching himself from whatever is happening, although he’s just an observer to his own life, distant and knowing.

Today, however, it won’t quite work.

“Martin.” Elias’ voice is soft, softer than Martin has ever heard him be.

It only makes him cry harder.

Why would they do this, be like this, if they will only-

His bed dips. Two arms press around him, drawing him close.

Martin moves with them easily, _too easily, weakweakweak_ before he realize the arms lack their usual chill.

Furthermore, unlike the usual half-hug, these arms encircle him completely.

Martin protests as he’s drawn into Elias’ lap like a fucking _child_ , even as he burrows his head into his father’s shoulder.

A familiar chilled hand settles in the small of his back soon after, another body pressing into his other side as Peter moves closer.

There is silence for a moment.

The only things Martin is aware of are this; soundless tears steaming down his cheeks. A hand stroking through his hair, softly. The friction of a calloused hand rubbing the small of his back.

Martin’s not sure what the last time was that he was touched like this. With care.

“Your father and I have actually been divorced three times now,” Peter breaks the silence.

“Peter,” Elias snarls angrily as Martin stiffens.

“And,” his dad continues sternly, “we have also gotten remarried three times.”

He falls silent. Martin doesn’t know what to think.

“What your dad means to say, Martin,” Elias picks up the trail, though the reproaching glare is audible in his words. “Is that…”

He pauses for a moment, looking for words. It is weird, hearing his parents like this.

Like they’re human.

The hand in his hair is still moving. His back is still cold.

“Your dad and I have an unique relationship. We are both… _unique_ people with unique tastes and interests. This has resulted in,” Elias hesitates, “in a unusual relationship as well. With an unusual sense of what is normal and what is not.”

Unseen to Martin, who has pressed his face into Elias’ shoulders completely, the two adults are frantically exchanging increasingly panicked looks.

Martin stays silent. His toes are numb.

“It’s like a game,” Peter tells him, words almost pulled out of his throat. “Part of a… thing. It’s…”

He falls silent. His dad never is the one to use a lot of words.

“No matter whether Peter and I are married or divorced, you are still our son, Martin,” Elias says resolutely. “You will always hold that place in our,” he clears his throat, “our _family_.”

Next to Martin, Peter shudders. The room feels colder.

“And we,” now even Elias sounds hesitant, “we care about you.”

A rustle of cloth. Martin feels the weight of Elias’ gaze leave him for just a moment.

“Peter,” he says dangerously. “place in the family. _Reaffirming_.”

For just a moment, it seems like the weight on the bed lessens, though the cold next to him does not. His dad shifts, releasing Martin for a moment, before Elias’ words make him lay an arm on Martin’s other shoulder again.

“We care about you, son,” Peter manages. He sounds strangled. Pained.

His fathers both act like they are held under gunpoint, simply because of Martin’s tears.

(Martin has never once cried in their presence before.)

The absurdity of the situation is what finally stops the waterworks.

“You both suck at emotions,” he mumbles. Hopes they hear the forgiveness in his words.

Though he still doesn’t know what the fuck is actually going on.

His parents both exhale softly. Elias presses him a little closer. Peter rubs his arm. 

“I’ll be gone for a good long while after this, darling,” Peter says softly after a while.

“Shut up, Peter/dad,” Elias and Martin answer in tandem.

Martin lifts his head to give a watery smile at that. Elias’ face is close. His gaze does not burn as it usually does, and his eyes are wrinkled. Turning his head to look at his dad, Martin’s surprised to see that Peter’s lip is bleeding slightly.

Martin exhales slowly, shakily. “You’re both idiots,” he adds and pretends that he’s not still on the verge of breaking down.

Both men stay with him until the now sixteen year old boy falls asleep.

It’s not a bad thing.

* * *

In the first two years of Martin living with his new parents, they get divorced two more times.

Remarry once, as apparently, the first divorce didn’t even go through before they’d made up. (Martin may have had a hand in that.)

Eventually, the constant dread of being abandoned fades. It helps that both of his parents make sure to spend exactly as much time with him when they’re married as when they’re not. The only difference is the amount of venomous looks and passive-aggressiveness.

In the end, Martin decides to just accept it.

(Also, Elias finally convinced him to go to that therapist. The more Martin goes, the more he realizes that is a good thing.)

After his junior year teacher asks Martin what he wants to be when he’s older, Martin lies awake in his bed. Wonders if he should study law. Maybe he could help his parents with their divorces. Delay them, maybe, so that they’ll have made up before the papers even came through. Or psychology. He could write his master thesis on his parents’ marriage.

Discards those ideas immediately. He’ll stay the hell away from that rabbit hole, Martin decides. Thank you very much.

Anyway.

As long as they make an effort for him, they can be married or divorced all they like.

* * *

Martin’s usual _I’m home_ is lost in his throat as he nibbles on the last remains on his (whole-grain, yes, father) sandwich. His boxing teacher was sick, so he’s home early, and looking forward to seeing his dad again. He’s been at sea for the past six weeks, after all.

Throwing his bag in the hallway, Martin opens the door to the living room with a smile.

And freezes.

He only sees flashes. Elias is wearing five inch heels. Martin would be impressed if he wasn’t too busy being mortified. His father's pants are far to tight. Peter’s chest is bare, something he _did not need to see_. And is that- is that _rope?_

“Elias! You would keep an Eye out!”

“Don’t look at me! Your damn fog blinded me!”

Martin turns around and walks right back out.

Seventeen is surely old enough to drink, he convinces himself and heads straight to the liquor cabinet.

* * *

School becomes better.

His classmates are pretty okay. The teachers are helpful. Martin still deals with performance anxiety – or anxiety in general, to be honest – but the school has a program to help with that.

He even makes friends. Good acquaintances, at least. Eve and Huan, both silent but friendly. They show him memes. Like poetry as well. Think it’s cool that he does boxing. Don’t mind that he fades into the background, sometimes.

Martin gets bullied exactly once.

The guy is, ironically, named Chad. He’s insecure because of his father’s lack of affection, Martin knows, though he’s not quite sure how he’s so sure about that. Must be all the body language Elias is teaching him.

Still, this does not excuse the way he presses Martin up against the lockers one afternoon. Spits in his face, “heard your fathers were faggots, fatty. Is that why you’re in the _special_ class?”

Martin thinks it’s quite appropriate to punch him in the face, after that.

What is less appropriate is the way his father storms into the school less than an hour later. He might seem calm, but his eyes are blazing and his mouth is tight, and Martin knows he is _seething_.

Elias disappears into the principal’s office.

Martin receives an officially apology from the school the very next day.

Chad is never heard from again. The way his dad is smiling that night at dinner makes Martin wonder.

The way Elias is looking at Peter that moment makes Martin decide to leave well enough alone and go for a long, long walk.

The air is fresh in his face. It’s foggy that night, but it does not feel quite that uncomfortable.

His fathers might not be entirely human, Martin thinks.

He decides it’s not a bad thing.

* * *

Huan is friends with Arthur. Arthur is really cute.

“Dad. Father.” He stumbles over the words, though it is not because of unfamiliarity.

Both of his parents look at him inquisitively, even Peter.

Martin fidgets. Takes a breath. _They accept you as you are_ , he reminds himself, the echo of his therapist’s words calming him down just enough.

“I think I might be,” his voice raises an octave, “gay?”

It comes out more of a question than a statement.

Elias opens his mouth, no doubt to go through some correct and well-worded response, but Peter beats him to it.

“Nice,” his dad compliments, like he’s won a competition, and takes another bite.

Elias stares at Peter, then turns back to Martin. Something softens in his face.

Then his lips twitch.

“They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” he deadpans.

Marin buries his face in his hands. “Father,” he groans, “that’s not what this is about!”

Peter just laughs.

* * *

His eighteenth birthday is nerve-wrecking.

He actually has a party – of sorts. It basically consists of Eva, Huan and him going to the local poetry slam the night of. They make jokes, talk about words, and Huan even dares to get up on stage himself while Eva and Martin cheer him on.

They meet nice people. They don’t dance, but they do drink wine.

It’s like he’s just a normal guy.

It feels amazing.

The morning after – a Saturday, God bless – Martin wakes with only the barest headache. Two glasses of water and a shower later, he feels like a human being again.

The now eighteen year old hesitates on top of the stairs, hearing the sounds of brunch being made downstairs. It re-awakens the nerves he’d managed to bury the night before.

Martin knows that eighteen is the age he’s legally an adult.

This means his parents are not actually obliged to… have him in their home anymore.

Confront it, he thinks, even though he’d finished his therapy a few months ago.

So he walks downstairs, trying to look as casual as possible.

His parents are sitting at the kitchen table with an elaborate serving of breakfast before them.

“Happy birthday!” they chorus, or Elias says cheerfully as Peter begins but trails off halfway through. It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on the captain for weeks.

“I’m glad you had such a good time yesterday,” Elias chats as Martin smiles – still a little hungover – and takes a seat at the table. He’s actually not that hungry. “Huan’s poetry is actually very good. And did you know those nights are a regular thing? Every last Friday of the month, if you really liked it.”

“Thanks, father,” Martin responds simply, used to Elias knowing things he really shouldn’t.

“We have presents,” Peter says casually. Elias presents his before Peter’s finished with a smirk thrown towards his husband. They got re-married two months ago. Martin was the only witness and thoroughly unimpressed with the whole deal.

Martin also suspects it was purely for his birthday, as Peter disappeared a week afterwards.

Shaking his head as he accepts his father’s present, Martin chuckles slightly. Carefully tears away the paper. It reveals a beautiful notebook.

It’s clearly expensive. It’s also custom made – on the left bottom corner are the letters “EB. PL. MB.” in cursive. It also comes with a matching pen and a lock.

“For your poetry,” his father adds, and Matin cannot help the swell of affection in his chest. Fuck it, he decides, and raises from his chair to give Elias a hug.

Elias pats him gracefully on the back, though he doesn’t fool Martin. “Thank you, father,” he simply replies fondly.

Martin releases his father and turns towards his dad with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, ho, demanding!” Peter responds. “Just like your father, actually. Elias, how could you corrupt our darling son so?”

Elias raises an matching eyebrow. The two expressions look uncannily alike. Peter can’t help but snort.

“Okay, okay. Well, Martin, my gift is not physical – but it is a miracle. You see, I’ve finally convinced Elias to let you visit the Tundra. And, if you like it,” adding under his breath, “and nothing goes wrong,” like a complaint before brightening once more, “you can even sail with us for a week. If you’d like, of course!”

Martin’s face breaks out into an enormous grin.

Not just because of the present – although he’s been dying with curiosity about both his parents’ work by this point – but mostly because of the fact that this implies they’ll _keep him._

He makes sure to focus on the ever-present crack of loneliness his mother left in him before engulfing his dad in a hug. Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, but he accepts it with only a token protest.

The rest of breakfast is nice, though there is still an undercurrent of _something_.

As dinner goes on, Martin’s earlier thoughts return.

Maybe they’re kicking him out after all.

The last bite of pancake is like a lump in his throat.

“So, Martin,” Elias asks intently. “Before we start the rest of the day, Peter and I have something to ask you.”

Peter leans forward as well, eyes trained on Martin as well, _present_ in a way he rarely is.

The world around them seems to fall silent.

Martin swallows. Here it goes. He’s thought about it. They have enough money, and if the pattern continues, they won’t mind spending it on him. He can handle it. It’ll be okay.

(He can’t. It’s not.)

 _Where would you like your new apartment to be_ , they will ask. Or maybe more generic, _where do you want to live now_. Or maybe it’s even a simple _it’s time for you to leave this house._

But no. Elias said it was a question, and Elias never lied. Not like that.

Martin takes a breath. Gathers all his courage.

The air is thick with anticipation. Elias and Peter have both stopped eating, leaning towards Martin, all their attention on him. It presses on his shoulder, unnaturally heavy.

“Martin,” Elias begins carefully, and Martin opens and mouth at the same time.

“Who is your favourite parent?”

“I’d like to stay in London, please.”

The two sentences overlap. There is silence for a moment.

Martin slaps his hands in front of his mouth. His dads stare at him uncomprehending.

“Huh?” Peter eventually manages.

Martin just buries his face in his hands.

“You thought,” Elias beings slowly, understanding drawing in his eyes. “You thought we were going to kick you out. Since you’re eighteen, now.”

Martin presses his face deeper into his hands. Peter frowns. “Is that even allowed?”

Elias nods absently, answering Peter almost as a reflex. “The law allows it, yes, though it’s not common. But that’s not important. The important thing now is to-”

“ _Reaffirm his place in the family_ ,” Peter mimics Elias’ familiar phrase, “yeah, yeah.” Martin can’t help but smile through the confusion constricting his throat.

“I mean, we’ve spend all these years together, we won’t just suddenly drop you.” Peter sounds bored. “You’re a part of this now,” he continues almost impatiently, then freezes at his own words.

“You’re a part of us now,” he repeats blankly, staring at Elias.

Elias, for his part, is shaking with silent laughter. “We’ve never actually discussed what would happen after the bet- after Martin would turn eighteen. We haven’t even stopped to think about the risks or the potential _attachments_. Even as time progressed and we clearly got more involved than we planned to. We’ve just not,” his voice raises just a little bit, “not thought about it. Beholding bless us.”

“Fucking idiots we are,” Peter agrees, placing himself between Elias and Martin and drawing them both close.

Martin is still not entirely sure what was happening. Decides, as he had so often done, that as long as his parents cared for him, that it was okay.

Martin swallows, feeling a little nervous. In for a penny, in for a pound. One of them had to be the emotionally capable person in the family. “For the record,” he starts, and feels both men turn their attention to him.

“I love you both equally.” His throat is just a little dry. “Not gonna choose.”

It is silent for a long moment.

Then both of his parents hug him closely. They do not reply to his declaration.

They do not have to.

“Figures,” Peter mutters sullenly. Elias swats him on the head.

And Martin decided that it is not a bad thing.

(His eighteenth birthday is amazing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the watcher’s crown? i don’t even know her
> 
> martin would be a sad teenager not an angry one all in favor


	2. turn turn turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s life with his parents continues. He accidentally lands a job at the Magnus Institute.
> 
> Luckily, his new co-worker is super cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t stop myself this AU has trapped my heart and soul and I love it I’m sorry I JUST LIKE WORDS AND WANT FLUFFY TMA.
> 
> The **non-linear tag** applies here! (as does the confused but pleased Jon tag)

379.

Martin has never actually been to the Magnus Institute.

Well. That’s technically not true. He’s been there twice; but both times it was after hours, the emptiness of the halls a comforting weight.

His father dragged him there in response to him finally seeing his dad’s workplace. He’d visited the Tundra years ago for his eighteenth birthday.

Three days in a row, exploring the empty deck, scratching on the surface of the metal cages, looking out over the docks on one side and sea on another. His dad actually took him up to the captain’s quarters and wheelhouse, showing him all the controls of the ship, stroking it lovingly in the meantime.

It’s a fond memory, even if he wasn’t allowed to actually go on a voyage with his dad. If that was because of the danger for him or the danger for Peter, Martin never quite discovered.

Anyway. Today, he visits the Magnus Institute during opening hours. Which means he’s going to meet people that work for his dad. That probably don’t even know Elias has a son, never mind that it is him.

It is nerve-wrecking nonetheless.

But he needs the book for his research, the final source for his Masters’ thesis. So in he goes.

“Martin Blackwood,” he stumbles out at the receptionist’s desk. The woman behind it is stern, dark eyes and dark skin and muscled arms.

She smiles at him and her face lights up. “Ah, yes, Martin,” she continues, and rummages in the drawers for a visitors pass. “Suzanne couldn’t make it today, so Sasha James will be receiving you instead. Is that alright?”

Martin nods, hiding his uneasiness. Maybe his father had knew he was coming today. But fixing an escort? Please. He’s not a child.

“You know where the library is?” the woman asks him, and when he nods, waves him through.

Martin passes several people on his way to the library, not meeting anyone’s eyes. It feels uneasy to be here like this, like he’s deceiving them.

The paintings’ eyes are piercing. Martin gives one of them an exasperated look.

The library is still beautiful. There are actually people now, not a lot but still more than Martin expected, somehow. One of them is waiting on him.

“Sasha James,” she says kindly, holding out a hand. “You must be Martin Bloodwout, correct?”

“Blackwood, actually,” he corrects her shyly and shakes her hand with a smile.

“Oh,” Sasha says, “my apologies. Anyway, you want some coffee?”

Martin nods and Sasha fills the silence with friendly chatter as they walk. They end up in a small office off to the side. Sasha lays down some papers in front of her.

Martin is not sure what exactly is going on here. But, as has served him well over the years, he decides to go along with it.

“What do you think of the Magnus Institute?” Sasha asks with a kind of formal curiosity. Maybe she does know, Martin muses.

The next half an hour goes by swiftly. Martin talks about the beauty of the place, the importance of knowledge, a critical mindset. Sasha asks more questions, about his motivation, personality and, somehow, about his degree in parapsychology.

Martin does not have a degree in parapsychology. He _does_ have two not-quite-human dads and far too much knowledge about a variety of subjects, so he sort of manages.

At this point, it’s become clear to him this is _not_ just a chat with the boss’ son. But now he’s in too deep and too uncomfortable to actually say anything about it.

Must be his dad’s influence.

In the end, Sasha shakes his hand once more and congratulates him. “We’d like to offer you the position as junior researcher,” she says formally and Martin’s brain just goes _oh_. “Congratulations.”

Martin shakes her hand with a smile. Tries not to panic.

This is probably not a bad thing, right?

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

Sasha goes on about the grand tour, about starting at the top and fixing the paperwork in the meantime. She’s actually a researcher herself, she explains, though not in Martin’s team. But Suzanne from HR was sick today, and Sasha has some experience.

It barely registers in Martin’s mind. The words fade in the mix of panic, confusion, and curiosity as the duo ascend the stairs.

Martin rubs the rings on his fingers warily.

The stairways are decorated lavishly, golden carvings and plush crimson carpet and fancy paintings. Martin feels eyes on him the whole time.

“Hi, Rosie,” Sasha greets as they finally enter the top-floor lobby.

“Hi,” a pretty woman chirps friendly from behind her desk. Martin has heard Elias speak of Rosie with a hint of approval in his voice several times, which basically translates to _perfect employee_.

“Martin Blackwood,” squaring his shoulders and meeting Rosie’s eyes with a smile. There is no hint of recognition at the name, nor his appearance.

Elias appears to be a private person. That’s a bit funny, Martin thinks wryly, seeing he never manages to shut up.

“New junior researcher,” Sasha adds. “Just giving him the tour, starting with the Big Boss, fixing the paperwork as we go.”

Rosie nods, waving a hand. “He’s not busy at the moment, so go on ahead.” She walks around her desk as she says this, pressing a red button. “Mr. Bouchard, a new employee here to see you.”

Sasha waits for the “Thank you, Rosie,” before knocking on the door. The golden nameplate spells out _Head of the Magnus Institute_ in neat cursive.

Martin is grateful Sasha doesn’t turn to see the pained look currently on his face.

Elias’ office is lavishly decorated, filled with various trinkets from old bones to fancy portraits, a lavish emerald rug covering the floor. The mahogany desk is well-taken care of and imposing.

“Sasha,” Elias greets them, locking eyes with the woman even as Martin feels Eyes on him.

“Mr. Bouchard,” Sasha responds, “this is Martin Blackwood. He’s the new junior researcher. I’m currently giving him the tour,” she adds with a touch of hesitance, “and thought we might as well get the papers signed as we go.”

Elias locks eyes with Martin. Martin stares back, trying to communicate _I don’t even know what’s going on or how this happened h e l p_ with his eyes.

His father’s lips twitch.

“Thank you, Sasha,” he says, not unkindly. “Before you whisk away dear Martin for a tour, however, I would like to speak with him privately. I prefer to get to know all my new employees before signing the papers, so to say. Do not worry,” he assures gently as Sasha tenses up, “I know you were not aware of this. You did an admirable job replacing Suzanne today.”

“Oh. Okay,” Sasha says a bit uncertainty before straightening at the subsequent praise. “I’ll just take my leave, then. Martin, come find me later, okay?”

She shoots him a confident smile and Martin feels himself returning it, be it a touch more shallow.

The door closes behind her. Martin and Elias look at each other for a long moment.

Then his father starts laughing. Softly, of course, full of dignity, but laughter nonetheless.

“I don’t even know,” Martin sighs, dropping himself into the nearest chair. “I was just here for my thesis, I swear.”

Elias calms himself, though the amusement in his eyes is still very much there. “I was watching you the whole time. It’s the most fun I’ve had all week.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Martin mutters though he starts to smile as well. “Anyway, this was all a dumb mistake. I’ll see myself-”

“It doesn’t have to be,” his father interrupts.

Martin’s eyebrows raise. “What?”

“If you want to,” Elias continues, sounding more sure of himself as he goes, “you could work here.”

Martin is sure his eyebrows are not visible on his face anymore. “What do you mean?”

“Why not?” His father’s gaze is piercing. “You are curious enough. You have enough knowledge, even,” his smile goes wry for a moment, “first-hand experience with the paranormal.”

“I wanted to write poetry,” Martin responds, though even he thinks it sounds a bit like whining.

Elias sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve let your dad’s spiel about,” and here he mimics Peter’s cheerfully cadence expertly, “ _spending all your time writing stories no one will ever read_ ,” his father clears his throat disapprovingly, “charm you.”

Martin shrugs. Honestly, he hadn’t figured out quite what to do yet after finishing his master’s. Especially since his parents were quite stubborn in keeping up his monthly allowance.

Besides, dad’s idea had a certain charm about it.

“No, Martin,” Elias says, shaking his head and getting his laptop. His hands move quickly, efficiently, fingers flying over the keys.

“That simply won’t do. You’ll need to make something of yourself, darling. You can’t just wither away, forgotten, no matter how happy Peter looks when he talks about it. That’s not healthy for a growing boy.” The last part is mostly directed at Elias himself.

Martin sighs. “I’m not a Slytherin like you, father,” to which Elias chuckles heartily. “I’m not actually ambitious. Though I won’t join dad on his ship either, don’t worry.”

The pair fall silent for a moment as Rosie comes in, handing Elias a few pieces of paper and shooting a look at Martin in the meantime. He tries to smile reassuringly.

When she’s gone, Martin turns back to his father. “What normally happens in these interviews?”

Elias waves his hand. “Oh, I See if people are suited to work here. If they’re touched by the Powers, if they have the right amount of fear, possess some sense of decorum.” He sounds distracted as he rifles through the papers, dotting a few numbers on lines here and there. “That sort of thing.”

“So all of the other interviews are a farce,” Martin responds, amusement colouring his voice.

Elias shrugs, setting his pen aside. “Not quite. They weed out the true idiots, though I always keep an Eye out for whenever a new person enters this building. But it is true that I have the final say. It’s my Institute, after all.”

The possessiveness in his voice is audible. Martin does not get a chance to mull it over before the papers are shoved in front of his face.

“Sign these,” his father instructs. His mannerisms remind Martin of that time that Elias managed to get Peter sign their new marriage contract by shoving it under his nose at dinnertime.

Martin shoots him a sceptical look, reading the contract carefully. He eyes the Institute’s logo with suspicion. _Vigilo. Opperior. Audio._

The salary is far too high, though that is not what surprises Martin. The surprise is that he can find nothing untoward in it. Not even a hint.

“Is this the same contract you give all your employees?”

Elias smiles at him with approval. “Not quite. Let’s just say you are already bound to me and the Eye enough as it is.”

Martin cocks his head, thinking of snatches of conversation picked up throughout the years. “I could quit at any time?”

Elias nods, smirking. “Perks of being the son of, so to say.”

Martin huffs, shaking his head. “And I suspect we won’t be flaunting that little fact?”

“Would you prefer we do?”

“No.” No, he’s quite sure about that. This will be awkward enough as it is.

Besides, his dad taught him head-in-the-sand really is the best tactic sometimes.

Taking a last long look at the papers, Martin sighs.

Why the fuck not. It’s probably not a bad thing.

“Dad is so going to divorce you for this,” Martin mumbles as he signs the papers with a sense of inevitability.

“Don’t worry,” Elias reassures him, “Peter and I are currently quite content. He’s not going to divorce me.”

He does.

(It only lasts a month, so it was a token protest, at most.)

* * *

502.

As you grow older, you get to know your parents in a different way; like people.

Elias is sitting in the loveseat of the living room, alone. Peter has been at sea for five weeks now. His father’s eyes are on the wall, trailing along what he claims to be the original plans of Millbank Prison, the place on which the Institute is built.

The wine glass in his hand is empty. His usual three-piece is gone, replaced by a soft-looking blue jumper and black trousers. His father does not move. His eyes are far away.

Martin mentally changes his plans. He’ll go to boxing class tomorrow, he thinks, and disappears into the kitchen.

Returns with a bowl of healthy snacks, still making care to not make too much noise.

Elias hasn’t moved a muscle, still as a statue. His eyes are fixed on the wall.

Picking up his chosen DVD, Martin settles on their favourite couch and puts on what he thinks is the most factually incorrect documentary about fish that he knows of.

It’s not long before the couch dips and another warm body settles next to him.

“Antarctic fish do not surround themselves with their own snot to protect them from the cold – that’s a parrotfish, and they do it to ward of predators,” Elias starts derisively as if in the middle of an conversation.

Martin smiles, makes room for him, and the older man settles in. His father absentmindedly grabs a handful of nuts, chewing them thoughtfully as he frowns at the overly large TV-screen.

“Actually, the reason Antarctic ice fish can survive at below zero degrees Celsius is because it has a certain kind of antifreeze in its blood. What kind of subpar information does this program think to convey?”

 _Good_ , Martin thinks, and burrows a little bit into his father’s side. The other man yawns, the gesture oddly vulnerable. The dark circles under his eyes make Martin frown.

Elias throws an arm around his shoulders and squeezes him shortly. Martin settles comfortably against his father’s chest.

They finish two documentaries that night.

Afterwards, Martin makes sure to write a postcard to his dad. _Miss you_ , it simply says, and Martin makes sure to feel as sad as he can when writing it.

* * *

499.

Living on his own means that Martin sees his parents less regularly, though he tries to be home on the weekends whenever he can.

Which is most weekends, actually, save for the monthly poetry slam and subsequent sleepover with Eva and Huan.

This also results in both Elias and Peter actually planning in family quality time once in a while. Or, well, Elias pencils it in, mostly because he can’t resist a good, tight schedule.

Family bonding time consists mostly of expensive dinners, watching documentaries while his dad dozes off and playing board games. Martin very carefully vetoed certain board games. It hasn’t even led to a divorce once. Yet.

(Martin counts that as one of his proudest achievements.)

Of course, his parents spend time apart often enough. But even then they make sure to spend time with him.

His father makes appointments as least two weeks in advance. Elias’ idea of father-son bonding time is sitting in a café, or a bench in a busy street (as long as the weather is good), studying strangers.

Martin has to guess about passer-by’s secrets and his father tells him whether he is right. Elaborates most of the time, spanning into a long-winded story that almost inevitably ties into recent Institute goings, Peter’s recent ‘awfulness,’ or back into a question about Martin’s life and studies.

His father has some very interesting philosophical and ethical viewpoints. It makes for unique essay assignments, even if Martin’s professors look at him strangely sometimes.

Peter’s idea of fun bonding time is different. First of all, his dad just spontaneously turns up sometimes, dragging Martin along no matter his previous engagements. He’s even missed an exam, once. “Don’t worry,” Peter had reassured him, “I’ll buy you a new one.” Martin had sighed. Shaken his head. “That’s not how it works.”

Second of all, Peter takes him to a different place every time, throwing money around like it’s no big deal.

It goes like this: his dad asks him what he wants to do. Martin thinks of the most outrageous activity he can think of, wondering is this is finally the too much. But no. Peter always nods, smiling vapidly, and off they go.

Canyon swing-lining. Coasteering. Cliff-face camping.

They even go Volcano boarding once, though Peter complains about the heat the whole time.

Martin makes sure to never choose an activity with too many people, nor does he question the way his father asks him to close his eyes and hold him close as the world goes cold and bleak and a journey of hours turns into seconds. After all the lonely places he and his dad have visited in his youth, it’s not even that bad.

If strangers sometimes burst into tears as Elias watches them;

if Martin becomes worryingly familiar with the feeling of being watched and the cold numbness clinging to his skin;

if a noisy fellow tourist or two suddenly disappear in the fog just as they are about to ask Peter about his darling son;

Well. Nobody’s parents are perfect.

Martin decides it’s not a bad thing.

* * *

401.

His new co-workers are nice.

He meets Sasha a few more times, even though she’s in another division. He gets to know his other colleagues, though none of them make a very lasting impression on him.

Except one.

Jonathan Sims. _Call me Jon_.

Jon is…

Jon is amazing.

The first time Martin lays eyes on the man, he’s walking in a hurry and flipping through a book, pen clutched between his teeth. His eyes devour the pages, dark hair barely keeping itself from falling into his face, glasses perched firmly on his face.

Somehow, his very presence lights up the dark hallway.

Martin stills in the middle of the corridor, can only watch as this captivating man comes closer.

“Aha!” Jon shouts through his pen in victory, triumphantly pressing his finger against a passage in the book.

A certain part of Martin rejoices at the honest joy on Jon’s face.

Then Jon collides with Martin, who is still frozen. Both of them take a startled step backwards.

Jon is looking at him with surprise that quickly turns to shyness, redirecting his gaze towards the ground.

“Apologies,” he mumbles awkwardly and oh-so-charmingly, pushing on quickly as if nervous to be around another human being.

A different part of Martin rejoices at the self-consciousness radiating from his new colleague.

Martin himself is not quite aware of the precise reasons why his stomach flutters, why a blush rises to his face, why his heart starts beating faster.

He only knows his new colleague is really quite beautiful.

Looking back, he thinks he was a little bit in love with Jon from the start.

* * *

713.

His dad has been at sea for the past four months without a single visit; it’s the longest he’s ever been away from Martin. His parents have also been married for almost a year now, something that fills Martin with pride. These two facts may or may not have something to do with each other.

So Martin makes sure to arrive home a little earlier that Friday, sure his father is still at the Institute, that his dad will linger at the docks.

He has gone shopping with a plan, determined to be the one to cook a nice meal for his fathers for a change.

Hands full, he opens the living room door cheerily, a spring in his step as he-

Not again.

“AGH!” The groceries clatter on the ground as Martin throws his arms in front of his face. “Why,” he shouts blindly, “do the two of you not know the concept of _your own bedroom_?!”

“Wait!” his fathers shout in unison, and Martin takes a step backwards, ready to flee. “This is not what it looks like,” Elias says quickly, while at the same time Peter cheerfully goes “Not a weird sex thing, I promise.”

Martin freezes. His parents never directly lie to him. They wouldn’t start doing so now.

He lifts an arm slightly, casting a look full of trepidation at where his parents are standing.

It’s not as bad as he feared. He’d spotted the two of them kissing – something they rarely do around him – and a flash of something else and deduced the worst.

But both of them are still fully clothed and neither of them is looking particularly debauched.

“I still don’t know what exactly is going on here,” Martin says sceptically.

His dad shrugs, playing with the lace in his hands. His father doesn’t quite meet his eyes, the dark steel bones of the corset stark against the white of his dress shirt.

“It was actually quite common for men to wear underbust corsets during the 1800s,” Elias tells Martin stiffly.

Right. Martin can remember that from one of his father’s many lectures. Corsets were considered normal for higher-class men, straightening their posture and helping with their back problems, which were quite common back in the day.

“Okay,” Martin says slowly, “but you can’t blame me for making… assumptions. I mean. It’s happened _thrice_ by now!” He shivers with mortification at the thought. Though nothing were as traumatizing as that first time with the heels and the- nope nope _nope_.

“Martin,” his dad says cheerfully, “it’s a very natural thing-”

Martin waves his hand. “That’s not-” He sighs. “One of you is near-omniscient. The other has the ability to disappear at will. And it _still happens_.”

His parents look sheepish.

Martin pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Anyway,” he continues blandly, gesturing again at his parents, “why do you have to do this in the living room?

“This just came in,” Peter explains airily, hands deftly working at the lace, pulling harshly one last time and tying the whole thing with a neat bow. Elias doesn’t flinch. “It’s just to see if it fits.”

Martin has to smile at the way his dad pretends not to pay attention yet does not falter in his movements, once.

Martin cocks his head. “It looks nice,” he offers.

Something in the line of his father’s shoulders relaxes, and it is only then Martin realizes he was tense at all.

Oh.

“Still,” Martin continues, picking his groceries back up from where they’d fallen, “next time, just do these things in your bedroom and save me the heart attack, please.”

“So demanding,” Elias quips, but it lacks bite. Peter just chuckles.

When Martin serves dinner that evening, Elias is still wearing the corset under his suit jacket. Martin gives him the biggest piece of meat.

Peter pouts.

* * *

487.

Martin tries not to smoke. He really, really does.

But his parents’ bad habits are hard to shake off, sometimes. Especially now, just two weeks into the job, terrified that at any moment someone will jump out from behind a library shelf and accuse him of nepotism.

This time, however, when he steps out into the fresh air at the back ally of the Institute, there is someone else already there.

Martin buries his yelp of surprise in his favourite scarf. The soft and lumpy thing curls around his shoulders comfortably, the bleak blue-and-green pattern oddly cheerful.

“Oh. Hello,” Jonathan Sims greets him, cigarette freshly lit.

“Hi,” Martin stumbles, backtracking. “I can… I can leave, if you want?”

Jon studies him for a long moment, then shrugs.

Martin debates with himself for just a moment. In the end, he decided to stay. He’s an okay guy, Martin knows. _Valued_ , as his father would sometimes repeat unnecessarily. Why else would his parents put all that effort into him?

Besides, looking closer, Jon looks terrible.

Maybe he can help.

“You okay?” Martin asks, trying to adopt the caring but non-invasive tone his father is so practiced at.

Jon’s eyes flicker towards him for a long moment, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

They’ve spoken a few times since bumping into each other in the hallway. Martin wouldn’t call them close – but he would call them on friendly terms.

Jon seems to make a decision. The way he runs his hand through his hair and rubs his temples fits the dark circles under his eyes.

“Have you ever seen a Leitner?” he asks blandly.

Something tells Martin this is a much more loaded question than it seems.

He mulls it over, thinks about the closed-off section of his father’s private library.

“No,” he answers eventually, but continues quickly. “But, I do know what they are. Evil books. Literally life-threatening. Stay away at all costs.”

It is supposed to be cheery, light-hearted. It doesn’t quite hit that note.

Jon still chuckles humourlessly.

“Have you?” Martin asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” Jon answers. Takes another deep drag and does not elaborate.

It’s not a bad thing.

* * *

543.

Martin has only been down to the Archives once.

He knows, from how often his father and dad both complain about Gertrude Robinson, the Archives are a Thing. An important Thing.

Still, when he descends the stairs, he is flabbergasted by the absolute _mess_ he encounters.

“It’s a shithole,” Martin complains out loud to Jon later that day, meeting each other for their now daily smoke-break.

Jon snorts. “It’s idiotic,” he agrees, staring off into the distance. “I don’t understand why Mr. Bouchard lets an old woman like that run a wealth of knowledge like this.”

Martin chuckles awkwardly. “Me neither,” he agrees, though he doesn’t add he also doesn’t want to.

* * *

636.

Gertrude Robinson is gone. For good, this time.

Elias is not sure how he feels about this. Peter, of course, is very happy about it, and rewards Elias accordingly.

So Elias supposes he is glad.

Jonathan had accepted his new role as Archivist with just enough eagerness and curiosity to hide his trepidation. Now all that was left was a final meeting to sign the papers and formalize the agreement.

All in all, Elias supposes is in a good mood.

His mind is still on yesterday night when he arrives into his office the next morning. Elias feels languid, satisfied in a way he rarely is. Maybe Peter and him would manage to stay married for longer than six months this time.

Martin would certainly be pleased.

Rosie nods as Elias absentmindedly orders her to transfer Jon’s three requested staff-members from wherever towards the Archives. His mind is completely focused on Jonathan.

His new Archive. Currently on his way to his office, even though the meeting is not in another thirty minutes.

So eager.

He’ll do perfectly.

It’s only afterwards, papers officially signed and Jon appropriately flustered, that Elias turns his attention to Rosie.

“I’ve transferred Jon’s chosen staff and informed them of their new positions by e-mail,” she says matter-of-factly. Elias hums, pleased. Ever the efficient assistant.

It doesn’t really matter who the Archival Assistants are, after all. All the Institute staff is hand-picked by him. All are suitable to be sacrificed for the sake of his Archive.

Still, it would become him to at least pretend to be interested. “Who did Jon choose?” he asks politely.

“Sasha, from Artifact Storage,” Rosie begins, and Elias hums in approval. A little experience in the team won’t hurt. “Tim, from Research. A nice guy,” she adds, and Elias mentally shrugs. Brother lost to the Stranger.

“And Martin,” Rosie finishes, and Elias freezes. “Also from research. Apparently he and Jon are friends.”

What.

“Huh?” Rosie asks, and Elias realizes he said that out loud.

“Thank you, Rosie,” he manages stiffly, “excuse me.”

With that, Elias makes his way to where he Knows his son is working. Eyes already on him through the cover of a strategically placed book.

He’s just in time to see Martin open the e-mail on his computer screen.

To see Jon approach him with a smile on his face.

Martin turns to meet Jon before he hears him, and Elias feels a flash or pride mixed with worry at the display.

Pride, because of the smallest flash of Knowing. Worry, because of the look on Martin’s face.

Elias leans against the wall and _fumes_. He knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror often enough.

Martin is not going to change his mind.

Peter is not going to like this.

(He doesn’t.

Elias may be angry, but Peter is positively _seething_. Blames him, maybe rightly so.

His husband displays more emotion than he has in weeks. Elias watches hungrily, soaks it all in, reflects once more on how much _more_ Martin has brought into their lives.

Elias knows it is only because of Peter’s worry that he’ll lose Martin to the Eye, that something will happen to him just like it did to all of Gertrude’s assistants. He loves his husband enough that he does not verbalize the attachment, even in his anger.

When Peter divorces him that night, Elias does not protest.)

* * *

100.

“Martin,” Elias asks one evening at dinner. Martin startles, too caught up in worries about exams and Eva’s upcoming eighteenth birthday.

“Huh?” he answers with his mouth full, and Elias tuts disapprovingly.

“Have you thought about what you want to study at university?”

Martin swallows, shaking himself awake.

“Yeah,” he says causally, shaking of the fog that was lingering around his thoughts. “I was thinking about parapsychology,” he continues, doing his best to keep his amusement out of his voice.

Both his parents still. “Why?” Peter asks lightly.

Martin shrugs, deliberately taking another bite and swallowing it before answering. “You know, it might help me finally understand what kind of freaky shit the two of you deal in.”

His parents do not answer. Martin bites his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“If this is about that one time you walked in on your dad and I-” Elias starts seriously.

“Ack! No, father, it’s not about your freaky sex stuff!” He boxes his ears in defeat. “Oh, no, I’d almost repressed that trauma,” he murmurs to himself, voice getting louder, “why did you _say_ that!”

Peter is laughing, the sound echoing hollowly in the room.

Martin sighs, puts his hands over his eyes instead. “I debated studying psychology to make sense of your twisted relationship,” he complains teasingly, unknowingly imitating his dad, “but decided to save myself the inevitable migraine.”

Peter is still chuckling. “Probably for the best,” he says, and sounds almost fond.

“Anyway,” Elias continues, and when Martin looks at him his cheeks are tinged red. “You mentioned studying parapsychology?”

Martin looks at him curiously, keeping his amusement firmly under wraps. “Yeah. I mean, I know you two are not quite human, so there’s more to the field than it seems.”

“Really,” Peter answers. His eyebrows are raised high.

His parents are throwing each other uneasy looks. It’s not subtle.

Martin frowns.

“Did you guys really think I didn’t have any clue of what was going on?” At his parents’ neutral expressions, Martin feels his face scrunch up in disbelief. “Really? I’m not stupid, you know. And you guys are not exactly subtle.”

Elias sighs. Peter shrugs. “We prefer to live in ignorance.”

“Never,” Elias hisses sharply, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I might have overestimated my own subtility.”

“To be fair,” Martin responds cheerily, “you are the subtle one of the two of you. You don’t literally disappear at random times, for example.” He can’t resist imitating his dad’s airy countenance as he speaks.

“But it was hard to miss when you stormed into my school as soon as Chad bullied me, picked me up after a poetry slam I did not mention,” Martin holds up a finger with every example, “asked about a crush I never-”

“Yes, yes,” his father sighs in defeat. “I get it. But now you’ve made me curious.”

“Oh, no” Peter adds under his breath.

Martin leans back, ignoring his dad, thinking it over. “You are both connected to some kind of power,” he muses aloud, “though it’s not the same one.”

“Father,” he starts, and Elias gives him his undivided attention. “With you, it’s knowledge. You know a lot of things that you shouldn’t, like you have constant access to all the resources of the internet in your head. But also live, somehow, knowing things are happening as they are happening. Curiosity and eagerness to learn are important values to you.”

There’s more to it, Martin is sure, but he’s never really made an effort to throw himself too deep into the rabbit hole.

“Dad, on the other hand,” and Peter leans forward with a glint in his eyes, “is all about solitariness. Being alone, introverted, never meeting too many people. Beauty of isolation, numbing yourself from painful things, closing yourself off from people who don’t matter. It sounds unhealthier than it is, I think. For me, at least.”

Martin waves his hand. Suppresses the urge to preen. Maybe he’ll finally get some answers.

His parents are staring with him with indecipherable expressions on their faces.

“I’ve…” Elias beings, but trails off. Looks at Peter.

Peter looks just as helplessly back. “He’s not wrong, per se,” and does not finish his sentence.

Another moment of silence.

Peter strokes his beard. Elias scratches at his chin.

“Did I say something wrong?” Martin asks nervously.

“No,” Elias responds quickly, shaking his head. “It’s not that. It’s just that neither me nor your father has ever heard their… patrons described in such a…”

Peter finishes his husband’s sentence, “…loving way.” The shiver in his voice echoes strangely. “From someone who isn’t an Avatar himself.”

Martin frowns. Avatar? “Is that a bad thing?”

Peter shrugs. “Nah.” Elias frowns and does not say anything.

The couple look at each other some more.

“I’m not quite sure,” Elias eventually answers. “your case is quite an unique one. You see, son,” he adds absentmindedly as warmth fills Martin’s chest, “now that the secret is out, so to say, we might as well throw our cards on the table. Information is power; I intend to make you strong.”

And so Martin learns about the Dread Powers.

The Eye; the Beholding; the Ceaseless Watcher.

The Lonely; the Forsaken; the One Alone.

His parents do not tell him all of it. Far from it, he’s sure about that. Martin doesn’t know if it is because of their differing patrons – for a few tense moments during their spiel both Elias and Peter shoot each other suspicious looks, – or because they think he’s not ready to know, or because they want to protect him.

He doesn’t really care.

It’s still nice to learn these things. To finally have some logic and framework for all the paranormal things that happen around him and his family.

To learn that both his fathers serve an evil Fear entity, well.

No family is perfect.

It’s not a bad thing.

(In the end, Martin goes off to study philosophy. It matches well with his poetry, curiosity, and aversion to human contact.

He wasn’t ever really serious about parapsychology in the first place. He does not think he would have learned a lot, not with him already having so much first hand experience.)

* * *

650.

Jon wipes his hands on his trousers as he shakes the hand of the Head of the Magnus Institute – his new boss. Direct boss. _Call me Elias now, Jon. We’re going to be working together from now on._

When he was called into Mr. Bou- Elias’ office, Jon was not sure if he was going to be fired or not. It was only two days after he had started his new job, for God’s sake!

Maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so angry at the state of the archives.

But he couldn’t help it. It was just… disrespectful.

It turned out Jon was worried for naught. Elias had only called him into his office to inform him about the transfer of his requested assistants; Tim, Sasha, and Martin. It was good news, especially the latter – the only person in this place he’d actually struck up a friendship with.

Elias, for his turn, places a surprising emphasis on treating his assistants well. _Keeping them safe_ , he even says twice, even though Jon does not know what dangers would lurk in the Archives. Dust allergies? Papercuts?

Even so, Elias seems genuine in his concern.

It’s actually reassuring to witness, a little bit of humanity from the usually untouchable boss.

* * *

913.

One day, when walking home from his new job as an Archival Assistant, Martin feels _watched_.

It is nothing like the comforting weight of Elias’ ever-present gaze. This is different, like a thousand needles pressing against his skin, not hard enough to break but definitely enough to bother.

Martin frowns. Looks around.

His left hand tingles. His eyes fall upon a woman, standing in the shadow of an ally. Her face seems to be moving.

Martin swallows and makes a sharp turn.

His right hand tingles. The fog creeps up around him, and Martin makes sure to step towards it.

He gets home safely.

The next day, worms start seeping into the archives.

* * *

225.

“What is this?”

Martin looks at his parents in confusion. Both of them are standing in front of him formally. It looks kind of funny.

“Son, you are going to be living on your own as of next week,” his dad states like a deceleration. Martin frowns.

“I know,” he replies slowly. Elias and him had spent far too long going over far too expensive apartments accompanied by an ever-present fog.

He’s a college student now. It’s time.

(He’ll always be welcome back home.)

“You are not quite a normal child,” his father muses aloud, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“Is there a point to this?” he murmurs impatiently and Peter laughs.

“Here,” his dad says and pushes a box into his hand. “We’d like for you to wear these from now on.”

Martin cocks his head and opens the box.

Two rings lay plainly in soft velvet. On of them is golden, soft and intense, dotted with stylized eyes and a larger pupil in the centre, inlaid with an emerald gem. The piece of jewellery draws his gaze in a way Martin suspects is not quite natural.

The other ring, in contrast, seems to be not quite there when Martin doesn’t focus on it. The silver is pale, cold against his skin, only the barest etchings of waves visible.

“These are for your protection,” Elias explains with a touch of pride in his voice, “and are quite unique.” “It costs us a lot of money,” Peter adds under his breath.

Elias continues. “We are not sure what will happen if you would come into contact with another Power,” and here Peter scratches his beard uncomfortably, “as you are unusual enough as it is. There is a balance in you that is very rare. It’s fascinating.”

Martin pays little attention to his father’s ramblings as he goes on, instead touching the rings with care. Slipping them on after only a moment’s thought. The Eye on his left; the Lonely on his right.

They fit perfectly. The moment between slipping on the golden finger and not yet having on the silver one, Martin feels his skin tingle unpleasantly. Luckily, the second ring takes the sensation away.

“Beholding will help you see,” Peter explains shortly, “and Forsaken will help you hide. Do not mistake them for benevolent. Never forget their true nature.”

The worry in his voice rings mostly hollow.

But only mostly.

His parents step closer, each squeezing a shoulder before stepping back and making themselves scarce.

Must’ve met their emotional moments quota for the day, Martin reasons.

He smiles.

It’s not a bad thing.

* * *

703.

Rosie frowns as she looks at today’s calendar.

Friday is usually the day Elias keeps available for personnel issues. And paperwork, of course.

There are only three appointments booked in today. A blocked hour around lunchtime, which the Head of the Institute will probably spend mingling in their canteen. A two-o-clock meeting with the Head of Security, concerning the recent tension between two staff members.

And then, so low on the list she almost misses it, a third appointment.

Martin Blackwood’s performance review.

17:30 on a Friday afternoon.

Even Rosie herself is usually long home by that point.

The woman bites her lip. Only very rarely does someone actually get fired around here. But why else place their appointment on such a graveyard timeslot?

Martin is nice. A bit silent, fading into the background, but always interested in your day or asking about your hobbies. Never hesitating to offer a helping hand.

She knows Elias can be quite harsh when he feels like it. Has a well-hidden preference for dramatics that can come out at the oddest moments.

Rosie hopes Martin will be okay.

(She pretends that the appointment is not the reason she stays late that day.)

Hours later Rosie is busy typing away behind her desk when a voice startles her.

“Good afternoon,” suddenly comes from her right. She looks up. It’s Martin.

“Oh, Martin,” Rosie answers with a smile, “didn’t see you there.”

Martin shrugs. “It happens. Is E- Is Mr. Bouchard ready?”

Rosie nods.

“Thanks,” Martin replies, and disappears behind the expensive wooden door.

Rosie stares after him for a few minutes, a spike of worry in her stomach. She really hopes Martin will be okay.

An aborted attempted at finishing her notes from yesterday’s meeting later, Rosie decides she’ll bring in some tea for the two of them. She does that often, having an impeccable sense of when her boss needs it.

Right now, she’s not sure it’s as welcome as usual, but she is just a little too worried about Martin.

Gathering the supplies, preparing Elias’ tea just the way he likes it and arranging a variety of flavours for Martin, Rosie gathers her wits and moves towards the office door.

It’s barely been five minutes. They’re probably still in the introductory phase. It’s a good time to reassure Martin he’s not alone.

“Mr. Bouchard?”

Rosie knocks, once, holding her breath.

The only sound faintly audible through the door is…

It can’t be.

Rosie opens the door and is greeted by the sight of her employer, laughing.

Elias’ eyes are alight with mirth, a hand shooting up to cover his wide smile.

“Really, Martin,” he’s saying, eyes flickering to Rosie before settling back on that poor junior employee. “where _did_ you learn that. I am simply _shocked_.”

Turning her head to the side, Rosie looks at Martin. The poor thing is hiding his face in both hands. Rosie bristles, just a little. She can understand that the need to make difficult decisions, as the Head, but this just seems like bullying.

It’s unlike him.

Elias, meanwhile, is not done. “I don’t know who raised you,” he continues and if the context was different Rosie would call his tone teasing, “but I really must have a word with them.”

Rosie’s hackles rise. She opens her mouth. This is _not_ how one should treat their employees, and-

“You want a mirror? You look in it often enough, already.”

Her mouth snaps close.

Martin straightens in his chair. His face is not wrecked or tear-strained, as Rosie was fearing, but a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“I do not,” Elias replies and he actually sounds faux-offended.

Martin just raises an eyebrow. Then startles and turns to look at her.

Rosie has frozen, staring at them with wide eyes.

“Oh,” the junior researcher replies, and he sounds so apologetic that Rosie can move again. “I’m… Apologies, I did not know you were there.” The last words are accompanied with an accusing look shot at Elias.

Elias, for his part, simply smiles, eyes still dancing. “Rosie,” he says warmly, “I’d like for you to officially meet my adopted son, Martin. It’s not something we’d like to become public knowledge, but I trust you.”

The matter-of-factness of his delivery does not bely the way his words warm Rosie’s heart just a little bit.

Working with someone so closely inevitably means you form a certain attachment; a partnership, though not romantic by any means. It does mean Rosie holds Elias’ opinion in high regard and does her best to please him. To hear the respect returned is… nice.

The dramatic bastard.

“Oh,” she answers in lieu of voicing the thoughts now flickering through her head, “thank you, Mr. Bouchard. And nice to meet you, Martin – again,” the last part added with a little bit of a smile. Martin gladly returns it.

Scratching his head, the heir apparent leans back into his chair. “Yeah, it was never exactly the plan to start working here,” he elaborates as Rosie hands him the tea and turns to do the same for her boss. Elias’ eyes are focused on the boy. His face is more relaxed than she’s ever seen him.

“But when it worked out that way, well. I didn’t want people to see me as the son of,” Martin finishes and Rosie hums in agreement. “Luckily, father and I often think alike, no matter what dad likes to believe.”

“I certainly understand your decision,” Rosie adds kindly, mentally crossing off some questions she’s had about Elias’ private life for a while now. 

Martin smiles brightly at her.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Rosie continues and exits the office with a nod.

Father and son. She did _not_ see that coming.

When the two of them exit the office ten minutes later Rosie barely recognizes her boss.

The ever-present straight line of his shoulders is gone, posture relaxed in a way she’s rarely seen him. His suit jacket is on, but not buttoned tightly, and his overcoat is casually slung over one shoulder. He opens the door for Martin as they come through, the younger man still mid-sentence, gesturing wildly.

As the pair stroll down the abandoned Institute hallways, Martin does not hesitate once in his story – something about a trip to an abandoned rollercoaster park – confident his father is listening. Both of them smile at her warmly as they walk by.

Looking at their retreating forms, Rosie’s eyes linger on the way Elias bends ever-so-slightly towards his son. How the hint of a smile is visible on his face as they turn the corner.

If you’d asked her this morning if Elias Bouchard would be a loving father, she’d have chuckled awkwardly and avoided the question.

She would’ve been wrong.

It seems that even now her boss still manages to surprise her.

It’s not a bad thing.

* * *

115.

The harsh wind whips at Martin’s skin.

He shivers, pulling his coat closer against him, then corrects himself and thinks of his parents. The air immediately becomes a little warmer.

“He’s in his quarters,” Tadeas Dahl, his dad’s first mate, answers his question as Martin steps off the creaky wooden board and places his first step on the Tundra.

Looking around, Martin doesn’t see a soul except the first mate. There are several vast iron containers around them, most of them rusted close.

“You sure you’re looking for Peter Lukas?” Tadeas asks him once more, giving him a once-over. At eighteen, Martin knows he doesn’t look like much. Tadeas probably means well.

He still doesn’t appreciate the scepticism. Gives Tadeas the most vapid and aloof smile he can. (He’s learned from the best.)

Tadeas stills. Narrows his eyes. Nods.

“I’ll find him myself,” Martin adds cheerily, and sets off into the ship.

It’s early in the morning and the fog is thick around them. This time, Martin thinks, it’s mostly natural, not just dad-fog.

He wanders the corridors of the ship with wide eyes. All the doors look exactly the same. The floor is bland and uneven, creaking underneath his feet. The rails are rusty, paint flaking off.

“Hi!”

Martin startles, looking up. Behind him, a man emerges from one of the cabins, friendly smile on his face.

Peter Lukas’ son frowns.

“We don’t often get visitors on our ship,” the new guy says just a little too friendly, “you a new hire?”

Martin just shakes his head. Usually, he would say something, but the fog is thick around them. The familiar numbness of his tongue urges him to stay silent.

“I’m Sean Kelly,” the man introduces himself plainly.

Martin cocks his head. “You work here?” he asks after a long pause in which he fails to introduce himself.

Sean nods. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Martin purses his lips. “You don’t seem to fit in,” he says, surprising himself.

Sean pales. Retreats back into his cabin, quicker than he’d appeared.

Martin takes a small step back. Did he say something wrong?

Whatever. This is his dad’s ship. He’ll behave. Avoid further human contact.

Wandering along, Martin takes the stairs and follows the hollow pull in his chest until he stumbles into the steering cabin. The glass walls should be able to look out over the whole dock. Instead, its vision barely reaches the lower deck.

“Martin,” a familiar cheery voice beckons, and suddenly his father is there. Droplets of water cling to his beard and clothes even though they are inside. “There you are! Finally, after all these years, my son joins me in my sanctuary.”

Peter mimics whipping away a tear.

Martin rolls his eyes. Does not step forward for a hug.

“And? How do you like her?” Peter asks in his most aloof manner, turning away from Martin to look out into the fog.

“She’s depressing,” Martin can only remark, because it is.

And because it makes his father break into a rare and genuine smile, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes disappearing.

“She is, isn’t she?” he responds happily and pulls Martin into a hug.

* * *

800.

After the whole drama was over, Martin and Jon end up in their usual place. This time, there are no cigarettes to be seen.

Jon is the one to break the silence.

“Is that a… regular thing?” he asks hesitantly. “The divorce?”

Martin shrugs, huffing shortly. “It’s more like a game,” he explains, reflecting on his life as he does so. “Officially, since they’ve adopted me, they’ve been divorced six times and re-married all of those. But those are just the ones the paperwork went through on. Unofficially, you can add three more divorces and one more wedding to that.”

Jon just looks at him.

“I don’t even know, at this point,” Martin sighs with a certain giddiness to his voice, adrenaline still running high. “Just last year they tried to get married – one of their more elaborate plots, a noir-themed wedding with custom made suits and desserts and tablecloths and I don’t even know what else.” Martin can’t help but smile at the memory.

“But then the day of they discovered they’d never actually submitted the papers for their last divorce. So they were still married. Peter didn’t mind, but Elias threw a whole fit about it, saying it _didn’t count_ and _this ring was ugly anyhow_. Which offended Peter, who’s really touchy about his sense of fashion, which in turn offended Elias – anyhow, that day we ended up at Mrs. Watcher, the family’s divorce lawyer, instead.”

“This doesn’t sound real,” Jon responds, flabbergasted.

“I _know_! And who was the one who had to inform the guests of the change of plans?”

Jon throws him a look. Martin sighs. “Yep.”

“It’s…” the new Head Archivist begins. Trails off.

Martin holds his hands up in defeat. “It gets worse. One time they tried to get divorced only to realize they weren’t even married at that point. Which resulted in them getting married for the sole reason of getting divorced.”

Jon makes an incredulous noise. Mutters _rich white people_ under his breath.

Martin snorts. “I know. I was there. They literally dragged me to be a witness, signed the papers, and marched straight up to their divorce lawyer three doors over. Mrs. Watcher and I have a strange relationship by this point,” Martin adds absentmindedly, thinking fondly about his family’s loyal if exasperated divorce lawyer.

“It sounds like a movie. Or a really bad rom-com,” Jon adds, disbelief colouring his voice.

He looks at Martin. Martin looks back. The shared mental image is palpable.

They break down at the same time.

The pair of them spend a good two minutes dissolving into fits of frantic laughter, catching each other’s eyes every so often and starting all over again.

It feels good.

When they eventually calm down, Martin’s shoulders feel lighter.

The moon shines bright on the ally behind the Institute, illuminating Jon’s face in a way that makes Martin’s throat constrict.

“What’s it like?” Jon asks, hesitant at first but bolder as he goes on. “Growing up with them?”

Martin leans back against the wall, eyes on the gentle curve of Jon’s lips.

“I didn’t actually get adopted until I was fifteen,” he blurts out, “which is probably for the best.”

Jon chuckles. The sound fills Martin with a nervous kind of warmth. “Probably.”

Martin can’t help but smile in agreement. “They’re not normal parents, far from that. But it’s not a bad thing. Elias is the most traditional housewife-y of the two,” he says and shuts himself up immediately after.

Shouldn’t have had that third glass.

The way Jon is laughing again, however, makes Martin go on, starting to submit to the giddiness himself. The earlier mirth is still dancing in his veins.

“It’s true!” he exclaims, “Elias always asks about my day, drags me to the stores whenever he thinks I need something, nags dad about cleaning up after himself, and secretly is a _great_ cook. Although father also has no concept of privacy, a huge ego, and a twisted sense of morals – they both have, for that matter.”

Jon gestures him to go on, and Martin feels weirdly flattered. Having Jon’s attention is nerve-wrecking, but not in a bad way.

“Peter is gone for three-fourths of the time. Still, he always manages to be there just when I need him. Or just need a break. Dad likes to take me on weird trips and show me places he thinks are beautiful. It’s a source of calm in a stressful life, especially since I’ve started university. He’s a captain, by the way, so we often don’t see him for weeks.”

Jon hums.

“Neither of them are great at emotions, though Elias has devoured so many psychology and pedagogy books he sounds like a manual sometimes. He tries, though, just like dad, though dad never comes further than giving me an awkward half-hug.” Martin sounds far too fond, he thinks. Blushes, realizing how much he’s ranting.

“It sounds nice,” Jon adds, and Martin raises his eyes shyly. Jon is staring off into the distance.

“It is,” Martin answers simply.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Jon asks, blinking, amusement still colouring his voice. “We could have had so much fun with this,” he adds, clearly thinking of Tim.

Martin shrugs, hunching his shoulders. “I didn’t want anyone to think bad of me. Or to only see me as the _son of_. I’m very different from my father and dad both, and though I love them, I don’t agree with what they do like, seventy percent of the time.” He scratches his head awkwardly.

“I was afraid you guys wouldn’t want to be friends with me if you knew.”

Martin stares at the ground. It’s still wet from the rain earlier this evening. The start of the party seems like days ago instead of hours.

There is a moment of silence. Movement in the corner of his eye.

Jon has stepped closer, expression neutral though there is some colour on his cheeks Martin swears hadn’t been there before. The Head Archivist lays a hand on his shoulder, hesitantly, but more firmly when Martin flushes at the contact.

“Don’t worry, Martin. All of us want to be friends with you.”

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment. Martin thinks he could get lost in those eyes and happily never speak to another human being again.

Jon coughs, stepping back, though not as far away from Martin as earlier.

“This does explain why Elias was so adamant about me treating my employees well when he hired me,” the man muses aloud.

Martin’s spine straightens. “Oh,” he says, “I almost forgot. You guys don’t really know anything yet, do you?”

Jon’s brow furrows in offence. Martin can’t help but be charmed. “What do you mean?” the dark-haired man asks sceptically.

“We should get Tim and Sasha as well,” Martin explains and in a fit of bravery, grabs Jon’s hand to tug him inside. “I have a few important things to tell you.”

Jon lets himself be pulled along with only the slightest blush.

* * *

799.

Martin didn’t even know the Institute _had_ a space like this.

Even after standing in it with his colleagues – his friends – for half the evening, Martin still doesn’t quite believe it.

Why hadn’t Elias showed him this earlier?!

 _Because he loves his secrets_ , Martin answers himself with a fond huff.

The room isn’t enormous, but it could easily house a hundred people. The northern wall is lined with tall and imposing bookcases, a variety of old and colourful books filling them, coloured bindings blending in well with the rest of the room. The large wall opposing it holds several paintings and portraits of a variety of long-dead people from all over the world.

A bar is settled on one side of the room. An ornately decorated double-entrance door at the other.

The bar doesn’t quite fill the whole western wall. It’s busy, yes, with the free booze and all that, but not crowded. The type of people at this gathering are not the ones to start binge-drinking – not overtly, at least.

There’s a little space between where the bar ends and the bookcases begin.

That is where the Archival staff have nestled themselves for the duration of the annual Institute Christmas party.

Martin had been the one of the first people to arrive. The third one, to be exact, not counting the staff.

He’d let himself be dolled up, too busy sharing fond looks with his dad to really put an effort into stopping Elias. _If we’re going to do this,_ Elias had said, _we are going to do it right_.

So there Martin was, tailored charcoal grey suit matching nicely with his ginger hair and emerald tie. When his dad pressed a pair of silver wavy cufflinks in his hand when Elias was not looking, Martin just shot him an amused smile.

His rings reflected the light of the changing room.

When he looked in the mirror, Martin actually surprised himself by thinking _nice_. His usual broad and bulky form looked smoother, somehow, his pale complexion gaining a healthy sheen.

(He’d drawn the line when his father started to go for the hair-care products, though. Martin wanted to look nice for the party, for- his co-workers. He didn’t want to look like a stranger.)

And on they went.

There was a tight ball of nerves in his stomach that would not go away, even as Rosie met them outside of the ballroom ( _ballroom, freaking ballroom)_ that now served as a venue for the Institute’s larger events.

Martin smothered a laugh as Peter awkwardly shook Rosie’s hand. The woman looked positively thrilled to finally meet _the husband_.

His dad was obviously uncomfortable with the attention but Elias simply watched and did not intervene.

After giving Martin a quick hug and asking Peter a friendly question to which his dad stammered a very awkward response, Elias saved Rosie the trouble and opened the doors.

Peter had quickly followed, Martin and Rosie trailing behind, exchanging pleasantries. There were no actual guests yet; Elias preferred to be on time.

Peter called it the best part of the party.

Eventually, however, people started dripping in. Institute employees, donors and other connections – both the normal and paranormal kind. Some of the Institute employees had thrown Martin some strange looks, standing there smiling next to his parents, but none dared approach or say anything.

Elias was the perfect host, naturally.

The man made a show of knowing everyone’s name, hobbies and life story. Peter was fading into the background contently; most of the guests didn’t even notice him, never mind daring to shake his hand.

Martin was catching up with Rosie.

“So Alex is staying home with the kids, tonight – the oldest has just started puberty and is becoming quite the handful. Luckily Alex doesn’t mind,” Rosie chatted.

“Aren’t you guys celebrating your fifteen-year anniversary next month?” Martin asks curiously.

“Yes,” Rosie starts enthusiastically, breaking off as one of the Institute’s non-paranormal donors breaks off from Elias to shake their hand. Both Rosie and Martin offer their names, a friendly nod, and on the man goes.

“We’re thinking of going to Florida,” Rosie continues, “as we’ve always wanted to visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. And the kids seem to be into it as well.”

“Oh,” Martin says, suppressing a shiver at the idea of _all those people_. “Sounds nice,” he says unconvincingly. Luckily Rosie is too caught up in her giddiness to notice.

Martin takes a sip of his wine, taking care to not drink too much.

The door opens. A familiar form enters the room, eyes taking in every inch, and Martin flushes.

 _Jon looks beautiful tonight_ is the only thought in Martin’s mind. The deep purple dress shirt is good-quality and neatly pressed, pale beige pants making him even more graceful. Even the way he stumbles over his own feet as he descends the short (unnecessary) stairs into the room itself doesn’t take away from the effect.

Martin realizes he is staring when Jon’s eyes finish exploring the walls and other guests and land on him.

Jon raises his eyebrows.

Martin feels his cheeks colour and quickly turns back to Rosie, who is watching him with a knowing smile. “Big day today?” she asks conspiratorially. “You look ready for it.”

“Uh,” Martin asks, throwing a look towards his parents who are still standing next to them, “you could say that. And I hope so. I don’t feel ready, honestly.”

Elias is shaking the hand of a younger couple, elegantly dressed in a way that screams wealth. His father is making full use of his charm, though anyone that knows him can read the condescension in the arch of his shoulders.

Martin debates what to do, feeling the ball of nerves in his chest swell. When he throws a look at Jon, he’s surprised to see that Tim and Sasha are walking in as well, waving at Jon as he turns around.

Maybe it’s best to just rip off the band aid, Martin muses, turning his eyes back towards his father.

“That sounds fascinating,” Elias says genuinely though his eyes imply otherwise. “You must simply meet my husband, Peter Lukas; he’s actually been to Antarctica himself.” His father then turns sideways, pinning Peter in place with his stare, the unnatural bleakness around the sailor disappearing without a trace.

The couple startle at Peter’s appearance but step forward eagerly. As they do so, Elias quickly makes his exit with a smirk, ignoring the dark look his husband shoots him.

Nope, Martin thinks, and makes his way to the bar with a nod to Rosie. Time for another drink.

The band aid can stay on for now. Ignorance is bliss.

He joins the other Archival staff in their corner after thanking the barmaid for the wine, listening to her chatter on about the beauty of the Institute.

“Hey guys,” he greets the trio with a smile.

“Martin!” Sasha says happily, curls bouncing, throwing an arm around him and squeezing him tight. “You look amazing!”

Tim comes up to him, slapping his shoulders. He’s in a suit as well, sans waistcoat, and pulls it off far better than Martin does. “You do. Is that a _three piece?_ Fancy!”

Martin flushes, murmuring thanks and something about how it’s the occasion. Raises his eyes shyly to meet Jon.

Jon is looking at him strangely, like he’s deciphering a mystery. “Were you talking to Elias’ assistant back there?” he asks sharply.

Martin bites his lip, ignoring the flash of pain in his chest. “Yeah, Rosie is actually a very nice woman. Really likes Harry Potter.”

“Don’t we all,” Tim cuts in, shooting Jon a reproachful look. Jon flushes slightly, looking down as Tim starts describing his obsession with everything Potter back in high school.

Martin is chuckling at Tim’s story, imagining answering a test in lightning bolt, when Jon speaks up once more.

“You do look nice, Martin,” he says quietly.

Martin swallows. Takes a breath. “Thank you,” he manages, and does not stutter. “You do as well.” _Apology accepted_.

Jon smiles at him, a tiny thing that’s creeping out from his usual serious visage.

Martin is thankful for the wine. His mouth is suddenly dry.

“So,” he starts, “this is the first party I’ve been to. What usually happens at these things?”

Tim and Sasha give him matching grins.

Two hours later – and several tales of drunken research staff, arrogant socialites and one occasion when someone from Artifact Storage had somehow spiked the punch with something that messed up everyone’s sense of direction, so much Elias had to fix every single attendee an escort home (to which Martin resolves to ask his father about later) – most of the obligatory visitors have left.

The uninterested donors, the honoured guests, the people that just wanted to make an appearance to not be rude.

Martin has been keeping an eye on Peter and Elias the whole time. They had made an agreement, after all, and Martin intended to make them honour it. With force, if necessary.

It was with a little bit of worry that he watched Elias drag Peter into conversation after conversation until eventually Peter just straight up disappeared into the Lonely for a good fifteen minutes.

That didn’t bode well.

Maybe Martin had been worried for nothing, though. His parents had disappeared from the room exactly thirty-eight minutes ago.

Thank god, because their whole passive-aggressive foreplay routine was getting on his nerves. Martin estimates they’ll have cleaned up about now, doesn’t think too hard about how much he’s aware of his parent’s sex life, and… ah. There they are.

“Last year,” Tim explains while taking another sip of his wine, and Martin pulls his focus back towards his friends, “my friend and I went kayaking. All the way up to Canada we went, befriending one of the locals. Turns out she was Sasha’s childhood best friend!”

Maybe not yet, Martin muses, letting Tim’s story flow in and out of his ears.

He recognizes the way the shadows cling to one of the ghastly-faced guests both Elias and Peter are currently in deep conversation with. It even seems to be willingly, in Peter’s case.

Not yet.

More stories are swapped. Sasha leans further into Tim’s side. Martin drinks a third glass of wine, unable to say no to Jon.

Time passes.

The night is almost coming to an end by the time Martin spots his parents talking to each other intently on the side of the room.

Finally. The perfect time for some awkward (re-)introductions.

Tim and Sasha are starting to make noises about going home, shooting each other meaningful looks as they do so.

 _Band aid_ , Martin reminds himself.

“Come,” he tells the others, who startle at the resoluteness of his voice, “there is someone I’d like you guys to meet before we leave. Someones, I guess.”

“Who?” Jon asks curiously. Martin doesn’t answer, trying to shove the ticking time bomb further in front of him just a little longer.

The three Archival staff members follow Martin curiously as he leads them towards his parents. Elias and Peter are leaning against the bookcases, just a little bit away from what’s left of the guests.

Elias is gesturing dangerously with his wine glass.

Sasha whispers “ _Elias_?,” questioningly.

“I know that sailor guy from somewhere,” Tim wonders aloud.

Jon is silent.

Martin’s attention is, however, on the curve of his dad’s shoulder, the set of his father’s mouth.

Oh no.

The group comes closer. The words become audible.

“Peter,” Elias says lowly, dangerously, and Martin presses his lips together. That’s not good. That’s his serious voice.

Peter just smiles vapidly.

“You have embarrassed me at the annual Institute Christmas party for the last time,” his father continues darkly. “I want. _Another_. Divorce.”

Each word is punctuated by a narrowing of his eyes, a swish of his wine glass.

Behind Martin, he hears three people gasp. One of them – he thinks it’s Tim – actually whispers _gasp_ aloud.

“Please,” Peter answers, and his voice is dripping with coldness. Whatever he’s going to say next is not going to be good. “Do you really think-”

“No.”

Martin steps forward. His parents startle, fall silent. Turn towards him.

“Just, no.”

They both look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Martin,” Sasha hisses behind him in alarm, “that’s the _Head of the Institute_.”

“I don’t think this is something for us to interfere in,” Tim whispers urgently at the same time.

Martin pays them no heed.

Instead, he meets his parents’ eyes, making sure they see the anger in them.

He doesn’t care about the divorce; it had been due for a while, honestly.

Martin cares that they do it like this. Right now.

And it’s not even a serious threat.

He knows this because ever since his sixteenth birthday his parents had always made sure to be married the day of his birthday – even his twenty-fourth one, for which they held the ceremony the day before and broke up again the day after. Martin only loved them even more for it.

His birthday is next week.

“It’s my birthday next week,” Martin says cheerfully, imitating his dad pointedly.

“Huh,” Peter answers just as vapidly, “is that so? Elias, dear, aren’t you the one who keeps track of these things?”

Martin crosses his arms. Taps his feet impatiently.

Elias is silent for a moment, holding his son’s stare, before giving in. Pinching the bridge of his nose, mumbling a barely-audible _fuck_. “I was busy,” he snaps defensively.

“What is happening?” Jon whispers in the following silence. Martin feels his cheeks heat up but decides to press on as if no one had spoken at all.

“You know what would be a nice birthday present?” he adds casually as he twirls around, shooting his colleagues a look as if asking a genuine question. It’s fuelled by sheer frustration, the desperation of why none of these things can ever just go _well_.

Maybe he’s inherited some of Elias’ flare for dramatics.

Martin whirls back around with force, pinning his parents in place with his eyes. The golden ring on his left hand tingles.

“If my _parents_ would stop _embarrassing_ me at their _own goddamn Christmas party_.”

The silence is deafening.

Both Elias and Peter just look at him for a moment, eyes wide.

Peter recovers first, always better at letting go, and rounds on Elias with an air of superiority. “You see, Elias, what you’ve done to the poor boy-”

“No, dad,” Martin cuts in, pointing a finger at him. “This is just as much your fault as it is father’s. It always is. So quit it. It’s,” he throws his hands up in the air in frustration.

His birthday is _next week_. Their whole argument is a farce and they know it.

“I don’t care how much you divorce each other again,” Martin continues, on a roll now, “I care that I wanted to finally properly introduce you to my friends and you act like _children_. You’ve been needling each other all evening, disappearing to god-knows-where, then talking to Rayner of all people-”

“Son. Wait,” Elias tries, holding up a hand placidly, but Martin is unerring in his lecture.

“And don’t you start as well,” he replies while turning his accusing finger on his father, “you’re always on about workplace decorum and appropriate behaviour. And then you act like this?” Martin throws his hands in the air with exasperation.

“This is amazing,” Tim voice is filled with admiration. “A work of art.”

“I think I’m dreaming,” Sasha adds with wonder.

“ _What is happening,”_ Jon repeats.

There is a pointed silence in which no one answers those questions.

Peter is the first to give in, ever impatient. “You’re right, Martin. I’m a horrible dad, I shall just-”

“You shan’t,” Elias interrupts Peter pointedly, giving him a Look that cuts through any fog that was starting to gather around his husbands feet.

Then he turns back to Martin. “My apologies. Let’s try this again, shall we?” he adds cheerily, turning towards the Archival assistants with his most charming I’m-a-harmless-bureaucrat smile.

It doesn’t really work.

“I’d like to introduce you all to my husband, Peter Lukas. We are also, coincidentally, Martin’s parents,” Elias says formally, determined to holding on whatever dignity he has left after just being lectured by his son at his own Christmas Party.

“Adopted,” Martin couldn’t help but sigh, for the first time in his life glad there was no genetic relationship between them.

Peter gave the trio of Archival staff standing behind Martin a cheery wave. “Hi,” he started, and did not say anything more.

Martin and Elias raised an eyebrow at him simultaneously. Their expressions looked uncannily alike.

“You know, I can actually believe this,” Tim says as he slowly walks forward. “This is kind of awesome, actually. Now we have boss, double boss, double boss’ husband, and double boss’ son.”

“That’s just giving ourselves a headache,” Sasha adds, visibly trying to collect herself. Jon crosses his arms, eyebrows still raised high, and looks like he’s barely stopping himself from firing off a volley of very invasive questions.

“Nice to meet you all,” Peter adds reluctantly at Martin’s and Elias’ matching stares.

Three pair of eyes swivel towards him. Martin winces in sympathy, then corrects himself. Serves his dad right.

“Right,” Elias says, usual charm faltering under the awkwardness that is now palatable in the air.

No one says anything for a moment.

“ _Sooo_ ,” Martin begins, turning around slowly, “anyone else want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” “Don’t mind if I do,” “Thank god,” Jon, Sasha and Tim answer simultaneously.

The four Archival assistants make a hasty exist, shooting each other – and Martin – unsubtle looks.

“That went well,” Martin hears Peter remark casually behind them as they flee through the double doors of the ballroom.

Elias just sighs.

* * *

332.

When Martin returns home he is surprised to see two coats already hanging by the door.

It’s three o’ clock on a Friday. Martin mentally checks his calendar.

His exams aren’t for another two weeks, even his favourite course _Capitalism and Beyond_. (He’s had some fascinating discussions with his father about that, for sure.)

No birthdays approaching, no holidays, his parents still in the honeymoon phase of their seventh- eighth? marriage.

“Hello?!” Martin shouts through the house, just to be sure. “Martin!” Peter’s jovial voice echoes from the kitchen, apparently back from sea.

Martin relaxes and swings his backpack over his shoulder, stepping into the kitchen.

Stills in surprise.

There is a large cake on the countertop; Martin counts five layers, alternating between a cool blue and warm hazel-green, uncannily matching his dad’s and father’s eyes respectively.

The cake is painstakingly decorated with a variety of figures, objects and numbers that all hold some kind of meaning to Martin. Books and pens. A ship. A boxing glove. A variety of rings.

At the very top stands a figure that looks very much like him, down to the miniscule freckles on his face, beaming proudly into nothingness. He’s surrounded by fog that somehow manages to give off the impression of a giant eye, the small Martin standing in its pupil.

In front of the cake stand his parents. Peter is fondly looking at his husband. Elias is beaming, proudly, still clad in an apron dotted with specks of icing.

Martin mirrors his dad’s look at he thoroughly inspects the cake his father has expertly make.

Elias really is a very good cook.

“Happy five-year anniversary!” his father says joyously, elbowing Peter in the ribs as his dad echoes the statement obediently.

Martin chuckles, though he’s a little confused. “Haven’t you guys been married for longer, by now?” And to think of it, the cake seems to mostly revolve around him.

Elias shakes his head, dropping his arms and huffing uncharacteristically. “No, Martin, this is for you!” His voice is full of glee. “Well, for us. Today, it’s been exactly five years since we’ve adopted you, and your dad and I wanted to celebrate that.”

 _Oh_ , Martin thinks.

Opens his mouth. Closes it.

His mind is strangely empty.

“I’ve made you a scarf,” Peter continues cheerily as if Martin has reacted like a normal person would. “All by myself. Kept me busy enough,” and holds up his arms, revealing a strange lump of cloth that looks very soft. Its colours are a little bit bleak, ever-so-slightly mismatched with the cake, giving it an off feeling.

“You see, Martin,” Elias says solemnly, “Peter and I have been very pleasantly surprised by how much joy you have brought into our lives. We honestly didn’t think being parents would be so fulfilling, or so well-suited to us; but we also attribute that to the fact that you are a very capable young man who simply fits nicely into our lives. And all that it entails,” he adds meaningfully.

Peter nods solemnly. “What he said.”

“And,” Elias continues as if uninterrupted, fingers twitching slightly, “we love you.” A strange look passes over his father’s face, though it passes quickly. “And we hope you have come to think of us as your parents as much as we think of you as our son.” His father finishes his speech with a nod, as if complementing himself at a job well done.

“Yeah,” Peter adds, “what your father says. I. Yeah. I agree.” There is a notable lack of fog seeping through the open window.

Martin’s backpack slips off his shoulder. He feels his eyes water slightly; there is a surprising absence of shame in his gut.

The son of Elias Bouchard and Peter Lukas does not hesitate to throw himself into his parents’ arms. Peter lets out a soft _oomph_ but is quick to return the hug. Elias’ hand shoots out to prevent the two of them from knocking into the cake, and is swiftly drawn into the bear hug as well.

Martin breathes in deep, the scent of salt and cedarwood filling his nose.

“I told you this would happen,” his dad grumbles as he leans his chin on the top of Martin’s head.

“Shut it, Peter,” Elias grumbles as he leans back into his husband’s chest, stroking Martin’s hair with a smile.

Martin might be trembling slightly, memories and feelings from the past years resurfacing with a vengeance.

Flashes from his youth; his biological father’s retreating back, the fiery stare of his biological mother whenever he made dinner for them. The trembling of her hand on her hospital bed. The bleakness of the orphanage.

But they only resurface briefly.

They’re quickly replaced with memories of his most recent years. His father’s fond stare after Martin’s devoured another book. Waving his dad goodbye as the Tundra sets off. Holding back a fond smile at his parent’s renewed vows, both of them looking lovingly in each other’s eyes.

Elias stroking his hair after Arthur turned him down.

Peter watching proudly from the back of the stands as Martin wins his first boxing tournament.

When Martin thinks of his parents, his biological ones are nothing but a hurtful footnote in his life. Peter and Elias have filled the gaping hole of loneliness and invisibility with determination, stubbornness, and – in the end – with love.

Martin is absolutely sure that it is not a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not adopted myself; I did do some research into teenage-adoption guidelines and tips, but I hope I’ve handled the subject with the care it deserves.  
> (I also don’t know a thing about corsets or ships or fish. Big writer mood be like.)
> 
> My hc is that in canon-verse this bet was also a thing, but Peter and Elias couldn’t find a child both Lonely and Beholding-aligned, so eventually just called it off.
> 
> Edit: apparently this fic is good serotonin and I'm very happy to hear so <3<3


	3. ethics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been amazing I’m blown away I love you all <3 So have more! :D 
> 
> I was nervous about the Christmas scene ‘cause it’s so iconic, so I’m happy y’all like it :D
> 
>  **WARNINGS/tags:** descriptions of violence (not extreme, no torturing) and kidnapping. But Martin is okay don’t worry

294.

As Martin made his way home from the pub, he felt woozy. Not quite there.

Part of it was because of the alcohol, all of his college friends needing to unwind after an exam week full of writing pages and pages about ethics and capitalism and critical thinking and more.

Part of it was the lateness of the hour, the exam at 8 in the morning and the drinks finishing at 1 o’clock in the night not matching well.

Most of it was because he’d finally done it.

He’d kissed Kiaan. His crush. His first kiss.

As Martin made his way home – _no thanks, I’ll be fine, it’s only a ten-minute walk_ – he was smiling, lost in the memory of soft lips and tanned skin and brown eyes.

Maybe that was the reason why he didn’t notice the car pulling up next to him.

“Excuse me,” he heard from his right, and his hazy vision focused on the sleek black vehicle. The tinted window, pulled down, revealed a smiling non-descript man.

Part of Martin felt suspicious for a moment, but his eyes landed on the bright yellow ‘Taxi’ sign and he relaxed just a little.

“You need a ride, young man?” the taxi driver asked.

Martin stilled, scratching his chin. It was tempting, but…

“My dad told me to nev’r step into the car with strangers,” he told the taxi driver honestly.

“To be fair,” he continued drunkenly, leaning slightly against the taxi for support, “he told me never to talk to strangers at all, nor make any kind of effort to turn a stranger into a non-stranger. ‘xcept when dealing with the Stranger, of course,” and laughed out loud at his own joke.

There was a sound behind him, a door opening. Martin was too busy laughing.

The taxi driver was smiling as well, though it didn’t look genuine.

Martin’s laughter trailed off. The earlier unease in his stomach returned.

The Eye on his left hand burned.

“I think I’mma gone go,” Martin blurted out, taking a step backwards.

Straight into the arms of another.

“Wha’s happe-” Martin said before a lot of things happened very fast.

A hand in front of his mouth, cutting him off. His body thrown into the back of the taxi, doors pulled shut behind him.

A wet cloth in his face and then it all faded to black.

* * *

When Martin came to, the first thing he noticed was his massive headache.

 _Never again,_ he thought as he remembered the fourth round of shots and opened his eyes.

Fuck.

The room he was in nondescript and bare. The only pieces of furniture in it were two chairs. One of them he was currently bound to, held upright with rope.

The other was in front of him. Empty.

 _Fuck_.

Panicking, Martin craned his neck to look at his body. He was still fully clothed, didn’t seem to be harmed –

His rings were still on his hands. Both of them.

It was just enough to keep him from a full-blown panic attack.

 _Okay, Martin, calm down. Think_.

His rings had a certain amount of power, yes, but they were a far cry from what an Avatar could do. He couldn’t send the knowledge to his father, or disappear into the Forsaken – if Martin would even survive that trip alone.

Furthermore, any Avatar of the Fears could have done this, the Eye and Lonely notwithstanding.

Considering he was still in one piece, the Desolation, Slaughter or Flesh were unlikely. Nor did he think the Hunt would leave him alive after catching him.

The Stranger was a favourite enemy, the Dark also a possibility, though there was light seeping in from behind the curtains of the sole window of the room. Maybe the Spiral? But then he would’ve been in far more twisted environment. Maybe-

Or maybe this was just the beginning, and whomever had caught him was waiting for him to be awake before starting the fun.

There’s no fear to be harvested from an unconscious person, after all.

 _Fuck_ , Martin repeated to himself, feeling the earlier panic rise once more-

The door opened.

“Finally awake, I see” the taxi driver said with a faux-friendly smile. The effect was ruined by the two other figures following him in, faces hidden behind black cloth.

Both of them were carrying a gun.

Martin pressed his lips together and glared.

“Now, now,” the not-taxi driver said, taking a seat, “there’s no need for that. If you cooperate, we won’t need to hurt you.”

Martin glared some more. Tried to do what his father could, to pierce the man’s mind, gain _something_ that might assist him here.

But nothing happened.

The shorter henchmen of the two – probably a woman, from her gait – handed the taxi driver a few documents. The man flipped through them casually.

“Let’s see… Martin Blackwood, correct? Son of Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard?”

 _Oh,_ Martin concluded, _I see_.

He was bait.

“Who are you,” he couldn’t help but ask accusingly.

The man smiled, half-hidden by his beard. “No one important,” he said, “though you may call us The Collective.”

The Stranger, after all. Or the Corruption, maybe, though he’d seen no hints of insects.

Or the Web?

“Okay,” Martin continued, his voice climbing in height as he spoke, “you can just be straight with me, you know. Which one do you serve? Stranger? Corruption? Web?”

Maybe it was all of them. Working together against a common enemy.

To hell with it, Martin thought, if this was happening, he’d give as good as he got. He took a breath, focused on the familiar feeling on his rings.

His voice dropped lower, the Eye on his hand tingling. Surging forward, teeth bared in a snarl, Martin felt like cornered animal lashing out.

“Who dares to challenge the Ceaseless Watcher and the Forsaken as one?”

Something flickered over the leader’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re on about, kid,” the man said, expression blank. “The Collective has a simple goal.”

Here it comes.

“Do you have any idea of your fathers’ net worth?”

Wait. What?

“Huh?” Martin said dumbly.

“Rich kids,” the smaller of the two henchmen spat out derisively. Definitely a woman. Henchwoman.

“Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, last living member of the Bouchard family, originating from France. Current net worth estimated at 2.7 million euros.”

Martin just stared.

“But that’s just the bonus. The _real_ treat here is your other parent.” Another page flipped.

The man kept monologuing.

“Peter Lukas, heir of the Lukas family. Lukases are renowned for their shipping company, investments, and tax fraud. Nothing ever proven, of course. Nor could they explain how their competitors simply seemed to disappear by the dozen. Current net worth,” cue a dramatic pause, “estimated 675 million euros. And that’s just Peter Lukas himself.”

Martin stared some more.

“It’s fucked up,” the third henchmen said, who hadn’t spoken until now. The anger was visible in his voice, fists clenched around the handle of his gun.

“That it is,” the leader said placidly, “and so we aim to fix that. Your parents will be sure to pay a pretty penny for your safety. Assuming they love you more than their money, of course,” he said with a snide smile.

Martin was still staring at them.

“So,” the fake taxi driver continued, “your parents have four days. Today, we’ll send them our demands. If by tomorrow night we haven’t received our money yet, well,” and here a cruel grin appeared on the man’s face, “you lose a finger. Another day, you lose a hand.”

Behind him, the henchwoman gripped her guns menacingly. The man laid a hand on the knife on his belt.

“Another day,” the leader continued, “and… Well, let’s not talk about that, shall we? Let’s just say- why are you smiling?” he finished abruptly.

It was true.

Martin was smiling, and he couldn’t stop.

“Okay,” Martin started, and couldn’t help the touch of glee in his voice, “so you’re basically modern Robin Hood. Which I totally agree with, by the way, I didn’t even know dad _had_ so much money. That’s just bullshit.”

“…yeah,” the leader said evenly.

“But that’s it?” Martin asked, relief uncurling in his chest. “Not wanting to turn me into a living flesh hive? Take away my free will? Strip me of my skin and turn me into a doll?”

“The fuck,” the henchwoman said plainly.

“I told you those theories were true,” the henchman hissed.

“…let’s give dear Martin some time to process this,” the leader said, clearly thrown of track.

They left the room, locking the door behind them.

And Martin laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

* * *

It was only a little later Martin realized this revelation did not actually solve anything.

It made him far less terrified, yes, but that did not mean he wasn’t still in danger. Or his parents. For all their freaky powers, he didn’t think they were actually immune to physical harm. Or guns.

He’d seen Peter cut his own finger while cooking often enough.

Furthermore, no matter how hard he concentrated on the rings, apart from a little fog creeping up at the corners of the room and the knowledge that there were exactly 166 pieces of laminate flooring in this room, it did not do much to help him.

Still, this _did_ mean there was nothing blocking his parents’ more unusual resources from finding him.

And, because Martin suspected his father of checking up on him every single morning, afternoon _and_ evening, the probability was high Elias knew he was kidnapped by this point.

Though Peter was still at sea, Martin vaguely remembered.

Or was he?

Anyway.

He actually had little details on how exactly his father’s Beholding worked. Could he see were Martin was through his eyes? Was it a bird-eye view? Could he Know Martin’s location?

 _Assume the worst_ , Martin reasoned, _go from there_.

His father had known only this day that he was kidnapped. His dad was still at sea. His father did not know where Martin was.

What to do, what to do. What could he do, in his position.

Martin was still mulling over the question when the door opened once more.

This time, it was only the woman and the fake taxi driver, who Martin had dubbed the leader in his head.

The woman was filming him.

“Say hello to your darling parents, little boy,” the man said dangerously as the woman aimed the camera to show Martin’s bound and slumped-over form.

“Fuck you,” Martin spat angrily and the man laughed. Something about the way he smiled, the way the woman with the camera was stroking her polished knife with her free hand, made something go _dark_ inside of him.

Martin went rigid-

-both his rings started burning-

The fog at the corners of the room crept up, just barely obscuring his hands. Even as Martin adjusted his stance to look desperately at the camera, he felt his fingers start twitching. It was not something he was intentionally doing. He did not try to resist.

_Five-two-zero-four-two-four-seven-two-_

“Father,” Martin cried as the woman made a motion to avert the lens, dragging the attention back to him as well as he could. “Dad, please!”

The leader tutted. “Now, now, Martin, don’t make it harder on your dear parents,”

_zero-five-nine-seven-_

“you’re in enough danger as it is,” the man finished grimly. Martin widened his eyes. Just a little longer,

_seven-seven-three-stop._

“Please,” Martin continued, gaze turning hard again and fog dissipating around his hands, “make these bastards _tremble_.”

The woman turned the camara off quickly.

* * *

The first day came to and end, and his parents had not arrived yet.

Another person, clad in black once more and completely silent, fed Martin two glasses of water and a piece of bread.

Martin decided to give in. He needed his strength.

He did not know what kind of conflict this thing would come to, but he wanted to be ready for it.

(Not that he thought his parents would be particularly violent people. His dad would probably just throw all of them in the Forsaken, amount of loneliness be damned. His father, though… Elias may prefer to watch, but somehow Martin could see him brutally pipe murdering someone. Or something like that.)

* * *

At some point, Martin fell asleep. Awoke. Got fed again.

God, being kidnapped was boring.

How late could it be, by this point? At least noon, on the second day. What had his kidnappers said?

They’d start with a finger.

Once again, Martin felt a little thread of anxiety worm its way up to his chest. What if his Fear-entity guided plan had not worked? What if Peter was too far away at sea, if Elias was only now getting the video? If his father couldn’t see him at all?

Martin shivered. He felt cold, colder than before, the scenarios tumbling over each other in his head.

His fingers felt a little numb.

Wait.

  
That was not because of his fear. The room was actually getting colder.

_Papa?_

It was only a minute after he’d dared to think that when the door to his room slash cell burst open.

“With me,” the leader _snarled_ , knife in one hand and gun in another. A cold barrel was immediately pressed against his temple as the knife slid through rope.

Martin was hauled upright with force, the only thing holding him upright the iron grip around his upper arm. His whole body was tingling from where the blood was again flowing freely.

He couldn’t stand on his legs. His head was dizzy.

“Whuzut,” Martin mumbled, making a noise of pain as he was dragged from his room by force.

They stumbled into a scene that might have well been pulled straight from a movie.

Apparently his cell-slash-room was connected to some sort of living room, playing cards still on the table. It might have been large, but fog covered the whole room, so thick the walls were barely visible. There were several figures visible on the floor, most of them with their weapon next to them as if dropped.

As Martin watched, one sobbing figure he thought might have been the henchman was swallowed up by the fog. His sobs were cut off immediately.

And in the middle of the room, forms outlined by the light coming from the now-broken door;

_Father. Papa._

Elias’ eyes were blazing. The gun in his hand was still smoking, aimed at the hench-woman standing close to Martin and the leader. She was holding her head in both hands, still shaking even as she let out her last breath and tumbled to the ground. Blood splattered around the floor.

Peter’s eyes, on the other hand, were cold as the grave. Turning from the now-swallowed man, he aimed his gaze at the leader, and the fog obeyed his command. His dad was bleeding from a bullet wound in his shoulder, Martin saw, and could not help a fearful gasp.

The cold steel against his temple pressed harder. Martin could feel the hand gipping him upwards trembling.

“Don’t come any closer!” his kidnapper shouted, voice climbing higher, eyes wild. “Or I’ll pull the trigger!”

Peter put up his hands in the air immediately, though his face was unmoving.

Elias’ attention was on Martin, not even sparing the kidnapper a second glance. “Good job with the coordinates, Martin,” he said warmly, though the tension in his voice was clearly there.

“Drop the gun!” the kidnapper shouted at Elias.

Elias was still taking in every detail of Martin’s trembling form, gaze traveling up his whole body. Peter’s eyes were stark on the kidnapper’s face.

Eventually, as an afterthought, Elias lowered the gun.

“Good,” the kidnapper said, “good. Now you’ll just let us through, and-”

  
“I’m okay,” Martin said through his kidnapper’s speech. Immediately shut up as his kidnapper jerked.

The frantic glint in his father’s eyes settles. His dad’s rigid posture relaxed ever-so-slightly.

The fog thickened.

Only then did Elias move his gaze to meet the leaders.

“You are very lucky that my son seems to be physically whole,” Elias said calmly, lethality practically dripping from his voice. His eyes darkened. “In return, we will grant you a quick death.”

A smile.

“But not a peaceful one.”

 _Drop_ , his father’s voice echoes in his head, and Martin let himself go boneless. Behind them, the fog _surges_ forward, wrapping its tendrils around them both.

At the same moment, the kidnapper starts trembling, pushing his hands in front of his eyes.

Martin falls to the ground.

The sound of a gunshot, echoing strangely. The vaguely familiar numbness of the Forsaken wrapping around him. Cries of agonizing terror, the sound of a body hitting the floor.

More gunshots. Like a hammer. _Bam bam bam bam_.

Cold arms around him, pulling him backwards.

Martin gasped for air as he exited the One Alone, his dad guiding him out of it with ease. The fog cleared.

His kidnapper was the only body left in the room. He was not moving.

The corpse was littered with bullet holes. Elias put the gun back in his suit jacket with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Got it out of your system, darling?” Peter asked in a tone that was not quite airily.

“ _No one_ touches what is mine without my permission,” Elias snarled in response, his usual mask slipping as he turned his back on his son’s would-be killer.

“Let’s get out of here,” Peter said, meeting Elias in the middle and wrapping the three of them in his embrace once more.

Though they once again travel through the Lonely, the way his parents clutch at Martin makes him feel anything but alone.

Later that night, after many questions and fussing and a well-paid doctor and Elias fixing the most nutritious meal he could think of, does Martin allow himself to relax.

The rest of the evening is silent save for the chatter of the TV screen.

His parents watch him like a hawk. It should be unnerving.

It isn’t.

Only when he is finally back in his room, tucked in safely with both his parents next to him, refusing to leave him alone for the night, does Martin allow himself to cry.

* * *

A week later, during dinner.

“You know,” Martin says thoughtfully, “I only recently realized exactly how much money you guys have. Especially you, dad.”

His parents trade a look. Peter breaks away first, shrugging. “I guess,” he says, “it’s not really that important compared to serving your God.”

Martin barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “If that is so,” he says casually, “why don’t we do something useful with the money? We could give it to charity. Or start one of our own! Maybe help educate orphaned kids, or something?”

This time, when his parents look at him, there is true horror in both of their faces.

Martin blinks innocently and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I hadn’t written a kidnapping yet and I could just. Not. Resist.
> 
> Also: this happenstance fuels Martin's next ethics paper. His professors are Confused and Disturbed.

**Author's Note:**

> this story got WAY out of hand


End file.
